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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740672">The Scarlet Files</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83'>nutmeag83</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Autumn, Creepy, Demons, Eurus is not as she's portrayed in the show, Friends to Lovers, Halloween, John Watson is a war correspondent, M/M, Scary Stories, Sherlock Holmes is a paranormal investigator, Sherlock characters in TBT universe, Sherlock needed a younger sibling and she needed the work, The Black Tapes Podcast - Freeform, well halloween-ish ...</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 10:48:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>48,817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26740672</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutmeag83/pseuds/nutmeag83</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>While interviewing paranormal investigators for a story, former war correspondent John Watson is introduced to the enigmatic paranormal debunker Sherlock Holmes. They become colleagues and friends as John investigates Sherlock's unsolved cases--the Scarlet Files. Sherlock believes the paranormal doesn't exist, but John is skeptical when too many weird things to be coincidences keep happening. In the middle of the chaos, John and Sherlock grow closer. Will demons threaten their happily ever after?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>71</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Spooky Johnlock Collection</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Parodos</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>It’s officially October, so I can finally post this. I started it a couple of years ago, then forgot about it for ages, but felt spurred to finish it so I could post a creepy story for Halloween month. A few years ago, I listened to the first two seasons of The Black Tapes podcast. As I worked my way through it, I couldn’t help but think that Dr. Strand was very similar to one of my favorite characters, so then I just had to do a fusion of TBT and Sherlock. No knowledge of TBT necessary. Get ready to dive in to the paranormal, conspiracies, and a little romance. Some horror, but it’s more lightly creepy than full-on scary. I’m a wimp!</p><p>In this universe, John went into journalism instead of medicine and ended up as a war correspondent. Sherlock went into paranormal investigation instead of regular detective stuff. Those reasons will become apparent later in the fic. I’m completely ignoring Moriarty.</p><p>Not beta’d or Britpicked. I’m more worried about demons than typos.</p><p>Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>The Scarlet Files</strong>
</p><p>by John Watson for UK Life</p><p>5 February 2010</p><p>When Mike asked me to start this new column—or whatever you call it on a blog—I was more than a little insulted. I was a war correspondent before this: hardened, tough, an adrenaline junkie. This job was meant to be a new start, sure, but still somewhat familiar to my old life. I thought I’d be taking on politics or white-collar criminals or society’s current downfalls. Interviewing people with odd jobs or interesting lives was not what I was expecting. And thankfully, that trajectory has changed. What started out as a special interest column has zeroed in to focus on one subject, one man.</p><p>The subject: the paranormal. Things that go bump in the night or appear in mirrors when you chant their name. As a horror film fan, I wasn’t completely annoyed with the topic of my first article. At least it wasn’t the world’s largest pizza. I interviewed the three paranormal investigators picked to be the focus of the article and quickly noticed a theme.</p><p>No, smartarse, it wasn’t ghosts. It was a man: one Mr Sherlock Holmes, paranormal investigator. Or, should I say, paranormal debunker. In every interview, his name popped up. Said scathingly or with annoyed but weary acceptance, the name intrigued me. I asked why he was mentioned in seemingly every conversation I’d had during two weeks of interviews. His attitude has apparently earned him no mates or even colleagues. He is more than rude or cold. He shoots down every notion that the paranormal could be real. He debunks every unexplained happening, every haunting. If there is so much as a mysterious door twitch reported, he’s on it, offering scientific explanations for every occurrence.</p><p>The paranormal community hates him. He isn’t even polite or gracious in his explanations. He’s rude, conceited, egocentric. Not only that, but he somehow knows things about people at a glance, so he tears apart their personal lives while debunking their mysteries.</p><p>With such a reputation, you’d think he’d be out of work, or at least avoided by people who hope their hauntings are true. But in fact, it’s the opposite. Not because people want his help, but because they want to prove him wrong.</p><p>For the past five years, Sherlock Holmes has offered a £1 million reward to anyone who can prove the existence of the supernatural. He’s been sent hundreds of cases over the years, and every time, he’s come back with proof of the mundane: greed, power, sometimes just a good old prank. But he’s debunked them all.</p><p>Or so he wants everyone to think.</p><p>Sherlock Holmes is a striking man—tall with dark curly hair, pale skin and nice cheekbones—but it’s the way he holds himself that sets him apart. There’s a self-assuredness to his posture. I can see why people might call him arrogant, but I think they’re reading him wrong. His icy eyes can pin you in place with a glance, which he uses to deduce your whole history in seconds. It’s disarming, but extraordinary. However, he’s not arrogant. Or, well, he definitely is, but I think it’s deserved. The man knows what he’s doing. He’s highly intelligent, able to see patterns where we normal people see coincidence or nothing at all.</p><p>He holds degrees in mythology, psychology and forensic pathology from Oxford, Cambridge and Imperial College London. He had promising career opportunities in all of those fields, but instead he decided to devote himself to debunking the supernatural, offering that huge reward to anyone who could best his methods. Many have tried, but few have succeeded.</p><p>I say succeeded, but Holmes would disagree, and he has yet to pay out the reward to anyone. Despite that, he has a few files, you see. In a cabinet full of the usual beige files are a few that stand out. They’re a deep red. You might call them scarlet. I asked him why the different colour. With a frown and a glare through his flat’s lounge-cum-office window onto the busy streets of London below, he paused before replying.</p><p>“They’re not solved yet.”</p><p>“Yet?” I asked, intrigued. “Meaning you think they can be.”</p><p>“Of course,” he replied with a smirk. “Everything can be, given enough time, money and equipment.”</p><p>It took some effort, but I finally convinced him to let me take a look at one of his files. Unfortunately, much to Mike’s chagrin, this story will take far too many words to tell, and I’m limited on space. Somehow. On the internet … Fortunately, Mike’s agreed to let me expand this into next week’s post. And the one after that. We’ll see how long I can keep this up, but given the number of scarlet files and my own journalistic curiosity, I think I can stretch this out pretty far. Thank God.</p><p>Sorry, Mike, readers. Instead of weekly special interest stories, for the foreseeable future you’ll have to read about my deep dive into paranormal investigation and the enigmatic debunker leading the charge to solve them.</p><p>I’ll be back next week with the first file. A story about two young boys, decades apart, but with the same mysterious, one might even say creepy, background. Until then, I remain your intrepid journalist—or blogger, or whatever I am now—John Watson.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks to Tamsyn Muir for letting me (unknowingly) steal her use of <em>Parodos</em> instead of <em>Prologue</em>. It’s basically the same thing. Parodos was the first song sung by a chorus during Greek plays. Epiparodos is similarly used at the end. There are two more nods to Taz’s writing in this story (both toward the end). If there are any Locked Tomb fans reading this, I hope you find them!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Paranormal Consulting Detective</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which John runs into Stamford, gets a job, despairs over his job, and meets a very intriguing (and handsome) paranormal investigator.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>One month earlier</em>
</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>300 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>John made his way haltingly through the park, trying to focus more on the beautiful winter day rather than the pain in his leg, the ache in his shoulder, or the tremor in his hand. It wasn’t working. He’d just decided to head back to his flat when he heard someone calling his name.</p>
<p>John turned toward the half-familiar voice, already dreading the conversation with whomever it was—the shock at his changed appearance, the pity at his new lot in life, the stilted goodbyes after they’d ground out small talk. He was still trying to place the vaguely familiar, round, cheery face when the man in front of him took the work out of his hands.</p>
<p>“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at uni together.”</p>
<p>“Right. Yeah. Mike. Of course.” Mike hadn’t been the best journalist in their class, but he’d been a decent study partner and mate. There were worse people to run into. John tried to look friendly. “How are you?”</p>
<p>Mike gave a gallic shrug. “Can’t complain. I’m an editor at <em>UK Life</em> now. Small beans compared to your life, though, eh, Mr. War Correspondent.”</p>
<p>John smiled tightly. <em>UK Life</em> was a big magazine, to be sure, but it was indeed beat by—in his opinion—war journalism. But that was a life he was trying to forget. A life he <em>had</em> to forget, if he was to get on with living his new, dull existence. He tried to gloss over it.</p>
<p>“Oh, they each have their place. Plus, I’m past that now.”</p>
<p>Mike nodded, pity in his expression. Here it went. “I heard. Sorry about that. You’ll be going back soon, though, right? When you’ve, uh, recovered.” His gaze skittered over John’s cane and leg.</p>
<p>John steeled himself. “Actually no. Getting shot kind of puts you out of the game. At least when it leaves you with a limp and a hand tremor.” He gave a tight smile. “I’m back in London for good. Or, at least, until my finances dry up enough that I have to leave. London isn’t cheap.”</p>
<p>“And Harry …”</p>
<p>“... has her own problems,” John finished for his acquaintance. His sister had sent him off with a barely used mobile and a shrug. Divorce occupied most of her few sober hours. It was for the better, them not being around each other. He didn’t need her drama bringing him down further, and she certainly didn’t need his.</p>
<p>“Well, you may be in luck.” Mike beamed at him. “It’s not the front lines, but I might have a position for you. A new column I’m wanting to develop.” He looked at his watch, then reached for his wallet. “Look, I’ve got a meeting to get to, but if you’re interested in some work, give me a call. But don’t take too long, these positions go fast.”</p>
<p>They waved each other off with promises to stay in touch. John returned to his dull flat to see what the rest of the day held.</p>
<p>In the end, he only thought on it for a few hours. It wasn’t war correspondence, but it would keep him occupied, fed, and in the only city worth being in if the front lines weren’t an option. He’d called Mike the next morning and was hired on the spot. It was only after he’d gone into the office a few days later that he found out that Mike oversaw the <em>blog</em> portion of the magazine. Sure, John’d written up columns that had ended up on websites, but it was still serious writing, done by actual adults. In his new job, he’d be working with kids half his age, using a language that was beyond him, and talking about subjects far below his old pay grade.</p>
<p>He’d almost walked out when Mike pitched the column at that first meeting. It was to be a weekly series, each post focusing on a different interesting job or lifestyle. It was work for a first-time journalist, not a seasoned war vet. But … he really needed the money, and he figured he’d do a few posts until he could find something meatier to write about. He’d make it work.</p>
<p>He almost walked out a second time when he interviewed his first subject, a woman who had written dozens of books on the paranormal (and some erotica he’d rather have been left in the dark about). She invited him along on a case to investigate a haunting. He didn’t know what the truth was concerning the supposed event, but he knew the answer wasn’t little ghosties. It was a colossal waste of time, and Mike would be getting an earful from him as soon as he made it back to the office.</p>
<p>The second and third subjects proved to be equally ridiculous, but he was finally becoming intrigued. Not in the paranormal, but in a common subject among the three. All three investigators made offhand comments about one man: Sherlock Holmes.</p>
<p>“I had it in the bag, then that arrogant prat Holmes had to throw a wobbly and claim that it was faked.”</p>
<p>“And was it?” John was talking to his third subject, Philip Anderson, when the man mentioned Sherlock Holmes, and in that same annoyed tone as the other two investigators had. And if the developing pattern held true, then there was good reason that Holmes had “thrown a wobbly.” He might be an arrogant prat, but he seemed to know what he was talking about.</p>
<p>“Well …”</p>
<p>John raised an eyebrow.</p>
<p>Anderson sighed. “Fine, yes, he found evidence that the owner of the hotel could <em>possibly</em> have set it up, but- but the ghost could have framed her! Maybe it didn’t want to be found out and–”</p>
<p>John refrained (barely) from rolling his eyes. “Isn’t the truth more important than having another ghost story to tell? You’re an investigator, right? Going along with the ghost story rather than actually looking into the facts would be like if I wrote an article about possible leaks in the government without looking into whether they were true, just because it would put more eyes on my page. My job isn’t about sensationalism, it’s about getting the truth out to the public.”</p>
<p>He let Anderson whine and complain a while longer before taking his leave. He then went directly home and started researching Holmes. Here was a man he could get behind—a real investigator, with proven methods, a stellar track record, and a possibly interesting backstory, if his current odd career and the reward money were any indication. The next day, he’d talked Mike into letting him interview the man, which proved harder than expected, but John was too intrigued to give up.</p>
<p>Eleven voicemails and a trip to his office (or was it his flat?)—where John had charmed Holmes’s assistant, a sweet woman called Mrs. Hudson—later, John checked his own voicemail to find a message from Holmes himself. The smooth baritone was unexpected but not unwelcome. He called the man back right away and set up a meeting. Twelve hours later, he was back at Holmes’s office/home.</p>
<p>“Hello again, Mrs. Hudson.”</p>
<p>“Mr. Watson.” She stood away from the front door of 221 Baker Street to let John in. “You’re early.”</p>
<p>He went for the disarming grin. “A necessity in my line of work. And please, call me John.”</p>
<p>She smiled back coquettishly. “Alright. John. Sherlock is–”</p>
<p>Just then a tall man strode through the open door, long coat streaming after him. “Ah, Mrs. Hudson. I need the files on the Sagamore case. Donovan keeps hounding me about it, and I want–”</p>
<p>The man, Sherlock Holmes, if his online bio picture was anything to go by, stopped his speech and stared at John, standing next to Mrs. Hudson. “Who are you?” Pale eyes darted all over John’s frame. He felt stripped, though not in a sexual way. Just like … Holmes could see into his soul or suss out his darkest secrets.</p>
<p>“He’s J–”</p>
<p>“Ah, of course,” he interrupted his assistant. “The <em>blogger</em>.” He rolled his eyes at the pronouncement but then squinted at John before raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”</p>
<p>John froze. It wasn’t unexpected, that Holmes knew about his past assignment. The man was very smart, and an investigator, so he’d probably done his research before he’d agreed to an interview with John. Still, it was a subject he didn’t like to talk, or even think, about. And, of course, there was the fact that Holmes had asked ‘Afghanistan <em>or</em> Iraq.’ Like he was guessing, based on something he’d observed rather than read about.</p>
<p>“Excuse me?”</p>
<p>“Where were you stationed, Afghanistan or Iraq? You’re a war correspondent, obvious from your hands, face, and pockets. Could be any of the smaller countries with their civil wars, but you’re tanned, so somewhere sunny. You were injured, so somewhere dangerous. You’ve got a psychosomatic limp and probably some PTSD as well. It could be somewhere in Africa, but the pendant around your neck suggests Middle East. Where are the most likely places in the Middle East to find a war correspondent? Afghanistan or Iraq?”</p>
<p>John’s mind tried to follow along with the quickly spouted deductions, but he felt his temper rising. What kind of person called out someone’s PTSD and traumatic injuries? Well, he knew what kind of person. The kind he’d begged Mike to let him interview. He pulled back his shoulders and nodded. “Afghanistan.”</p>
<p>One of Holmes’s eyebrows rose, but his blank face otherwise stayed clear. “A former war correspondent who blogs.”</p>
<p>John smirked. “Not what you were expecting.”</p>
<p>Holmes’s mouth twitched minutely. “Not exactly. No. Come on up.” He whirled around and headed through the door. John followed.</p>
<p>“I’m your landlady, not your assistant, Sherlock!” called Mrs. Hudson from the foot of the stairs. “Get the file yourself.”</p>
<p>“Oh, but you know the filing system much better than I do. Just the one,” Holmes called back before continuing up.</p>
<p>They climbed to the first floor, which looked a bit like the aftermath of a tornado. Books and folders littered every free space. They were stacked haphazardly on shelves and tables, along with VHS tapes, two televisions, three laptops, numerous electronic equipment John couldn’t name, and even some floppy discs. A desk was buried under more paraphernalia, watched over by a cow skull wearing headphones.</p>
<p>Holmes settled in a leather chair near the desk. John took the seat across from him, a red-print chair that looked like it had seen its fair share of years. “My research or the reward?”</p>
<p>John pulled his gaze from a human skull residing on the mantlepiece. “What?”</p>
<p>“Why do you want to interview me? Are you interested in my process, or do you just want to know about the reward?” His voice went mocking at the end.</p>
<p>John cleared his throat. “Both, actually. Your name is an oft-spoken one in the paranormal community. After the third mention of you during some of my interviews, I looked you up. Found your website, <em>The Science of the Paranormal</em>.”</p>
<p>Holmes perked up. “What did you think?”</p>
<p>John raised an eyebrow. It had been dry reading, but somehow still intriguing. The man’s methods were rigorous and exact, with no room for error. But the part of John that loved a good horror story wondered if Holmes was too much of a skeptic.</p>
<p>“Do you have to question everything? Has there never been a case that made you want to believe it was all true?”</p>
<p>Holmes frowned. “It’s my job to question everything. If it weren’t for me, people would go on believing, for example, that the woods of Dartmoor are haunted by a large demonic hound, instead of just being the nearby inn owners trying to drum up more business.”</p>
<p>John smiled, thinking of Anderson’s complaining that brought him here to begin with.</p>
<p>“What?” Holmes asked sharply.</p>
<p>He decided to leave the annoying man out of the conversation. “You say you can identify whether a case is a purposeful misdirection or just a strange case of unexplained phenomena within ten minutes of the events being presented to you.”</p>
<p>“You don’t believe me?”</p>
<p>He shrugged. “Just seems …”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“About as far-fetched as the cases that land on your desk. No one’s that good.”</p>
<p>Holmes narrowed his eyes. “I had you figured out in fifteen seconds.”</p>
<p>“You knew I was coming. I’m sure you looked me up.” He was interrupted from saying more by a beep from his phone. He pulled it from his pocket. Seeing it was a badly misspelled message from Harry, he put it away again. He looked up to see Holmes staring at him, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. Before John could ask, he spoke up.</p>
<p>“A drunkenly composed text from your brother? Was he complaining about his soon-to-be ex-wife or about the job he’s about to lose?”</p>
<p>John tensed. “What?” There’s no way Holmes could know about Harry. Plus, he’d got the gender wrong.</p>
<p>Holmes nodded to the pocket where John’s phone rested. “May I see it?”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>Holmes rolled his eyes and sighed. “I’m not going to steal it or break it. I just want to prove a point.”</p>
<p>John studied him for a moment, then reached for his phone and handed it over.</p>
<p>Holmes studied it closely, turning it over in his hands as he spoke. “An expensive mobile. Not yours, going by the engraving on the back, so given to you by someone. Harry <em>Watson</em> likely means a family member. Six months old, mp3-enabled. A young man’s gadget. Brother or cousin then. You’re not close, but he wanted you to keep in touch. You’re down on your luck, so he gave you his old phone. But why? It’s practically new and gifted to him by his wife or girlfriend. Probably wife, given the expense of it. Why give away an expensive gift from a loving partner? Domestic troubles. What kind? The scratches on the charger port suggest a drinking problem. You frowned at the message but didn’t reply. Either a message from your boss that you didn’t want to read or ramblings you’ve seen a thousand times from your brother. The weariness in your expression suggests the latter, as you’ve just started this job and haven’t had time to grow jaded, unlike your interactions with your sibling.”</p>
<p>Just like the deductions made on John earlier, the speech pattern was quick and the guesses accurate. Sherlock Holmes may be the arsehole everyone said he was, but there was no denying his intelligence. John had never seen anyone pull disparate information together so quickly.</p>
<p>“Amazing.”</p>
<p>Holmes fumbled with the mobile he was still studying and looked up quickly at John. “You really think so?”</p>
<p>Seriously? This man saw so much but didn’t think what he did was all that great? Or had no one ever told him so before?</p>
<p>“Of course. Completely extraordinary.”</p>
<p>“That’s not what people normally say.”</p>
<p>Having a good idea, John still asked. “What do people normally say?”</p>
<p>“Piss off.” Holmes looked both vulnerable and amused at the admission.</p>
<p>It was the expression that allowed John to let the chuckle free from his throat. After a moment, Holmes joined him, his laughter deeper, smoother than John’s almost giggle.</p>
<p>“People are idiots,” John finally got out.</p>
<p>Holmes grinned. “Yes, they are.”</p>
<p>“You’re an interesting man, Mr. Holmes,” was out of his mouth before he had time to stop it. God. Now he’d look like a groupie.</p>
<p>But rather than look annoyed, Holmes looked a little … pleased. His mouth twitched. “Please, call me Sherlock.”</p>
<p>“Alright then, Sherlock.” John tried to focus his thoughts. He was here for an interview, not to moon over some man, no matter how fascinating or intelligent (or handsome) he was. He cleared his throat. “So that’s what you do? You go to the site of a haunting or whatever, and you figure it out like you did me?”</p>
<p>Holmes—Sherlock—settled into his chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Sometimes. Sometimes all I need to do is hear a story or see a recording to deduce the answer. But if necessary, I do visit the site. And yes, usually it doesn’t take long to find the truth.”</p>
<p>“So, no unsolved cases then?”</p>
<p>John saw pale eyes glance at the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet, but before he could ask, Mrs. Hudson entered the room looking both exasperated and fond. “Did you put the doorbell in the freezer again, Sherlock? There’s a package you need to sign for downstairs.”</p>
<p>Sherlock huffed but got up from his chair and left the room.</p>
<p>Mrs. Hudson fluttered through another door, and John turned to watch her enter a kitchen.</p>
<p>“Tea, dear?”</p>
<p>“Oh. Yes. If you don’t mind.”</p>
<p>“Just this once. I’m his landlady, not his assistant, but Lord knows he doesn’t have the manners to offer you a cup himself.”</p>
<p>John hummed, looking around the room more closely. With the sofa, fireplace, and attached kitchen, it wasn’t likely an office, or at least not only an office. And Mrs. Hudson said she was a landlady. Apparently, Sherlock’s flat doubled as his workspace. John’s eye was caught by the filing cabinet Sherlock had glanced at when John asked about unsolved cases. He stood and made his way over, glancing to make sure Mrs. Hudson was busy before pulling open the middle drawer.</p>
<p>It was filled with the expected beige files that were in every office around the world. The tab names suggested they were for cases Sherlock had investigated. He closed the drawer and pulled open the one that had snagged his interviewee’s attention. Along with the beige folders used in the drawer above it, this one also contained folders of a deep red color. Just as John was about to grab one, a voice stopped him.</p>
<p>“What are you doing?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The First Scarlet File</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Sherlock shares his Scarlet Files with John.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>276 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>John straightened, shrugged, and smiled. “My job.”</p>
<p>Sherlock stood in the doorway to the flat, frowning at the drawer rather than at John. Interesting. Before John could ask about the files further, a man walked in through the kitchen door.</p>
<p>“I’ve been calling,” the man complained, glaring at Sherlock.</p>
<p>“I prefer to text,” was the laconic reply. He narrowed his eyes at the visitor. “Another death. Something’s different.”</p>
<p>The other man’s eyebrows went up. “What makes you say that?”</p>
<p>“You’re here.”</p>
<p>“There’s a note,” he said with a huff.</p>
<p>Sherlock rolled his eyes. “If there’s a note, then the killer is obviously not a ghost, and therefore this case is outside my purview.”</p>
<p>The man grinned. “The <em>victim</em> left the note. Will you come?”</p>
<p>Sherlock cocked his head. “Text me the address. I’ll be right behind you.”</p>
<p>With a nod, the man headed back out the door. The whole exchange had taken less than a minute and left John very confused. This didn’t seem like the usual paranormal investigation. Then again, Sherlock Holmes himself was pretty unusual, in many respects.</p>
<p>As soon as the door downstairs banged shut, Sherlock smiled widely, jumped in the air, and raised his fists. “Oh, it’s Christmas. A fresh victim <em>and</em> a note.”</p>
<p>“What?” John finally asked. Who crowed about a new murder victim?</p>
<p>Sherlock turned his head quickly, as if surprised to find John still there. He tempered his grin. “Have you seen the news stories about the victims supposedly being frightened to death in haunted houses all across the city?”</p>
<p>John nodded. “What of them?”</p>
<p>“They’re not being frightened to death. They’re victims of a serial killer.” Sherlock pranced about the room, picking up and putting down papers and folders.</p>
<p>“But they have nothing in common,” John argued. “The police have stated that they’re completely random. Why would a serial killer do that?”</p>
<p>“Because the killer is smart. Or they <em>were</em>. Now a victim has written a note!” Finding what he wanted, Sherlock rushed to the door while calling over his shoulder, “No time for tea, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll be out late. Perhaps some light refreshment when I return?”</p>
<p>“Not your housekeeper, dear!” she volleyed back as she wiped down the worktop in the kitchen. John fought a grin.</p>
<p>“Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea before heading out. I’ll text when I have time for that interview.” The man dashed down the stairs, leaving John’s head in a whirl.</p>
<p>What the hell had just happened? Who the hell was Sherlock Holmes? What the hell had John got himself into with this interview?</p>
<p>He sat back down in the chair, trying to decide what to do next. Some small talk with Mrs. Hudson was interrupted by Sherlock’s return. He loomed from the doorway, staring at John, who kept his face placid while waiting to see what the strange man would say.</p>
<p>“You want to know more about my job and how it differs from all those charlatans out there, right?”</p>
<p>“Yes …”</p>
<p>“You’re a war correspondent. Seen lots of nasty things. Terrible things. Frightening things.”</p>
<p>“Yes.” John hoped this was going where he thought it was going. If he had to sit in a gray office and write another dreadful article on some frightfully dull subject, he’d chuck his walking stick at someone.</p>
<p>“Want to see some more?”</p>
<p>“Oh, God. Yes.”</p>
<p>He was out of his chair and following the paranormal investigator down the stairs before Sherlock had time to rescind the invitation.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>He’d been warned away from Sherlock. He’d been kidnapped by a man trying to frighten him away from Sherlock. He’d run through the cold night streets of London behind a madman. He’d been mistaken for Sherlock’s date twice. He’d been tricked out of needing his cane. He’d shot a man who it turned out had been staging his victims so it looked like a ghost had scared them to death. It was, without a doubt, the best night John had had in ages. Literally years, if not ever.</p>
<p>“So, this is the life of a paranormal investigator, is it?” John asked as he picked up another sauce-covered veg with his chopsticks.</p>
<p>They were at some Chinese restaurant enjoying a post-case meal. It was the best food John had eaten since returning to London. He wasn’t sure if the food was that good—though according to Sherlock it was the best Chinese in Central London (according to the bottom third of the door handle)—or if it was the events leading up to it that made it taste so good. He hadn’t felt this alive since he’d been shot. And, if he was being honest, for several years before that. He’d grown jaded with his old work. It was important, and he’d been happy to do it because the truth needed to get to the public, but his heart hadn’t been in it for a while. But this was new. Different. Fun. Fascinating. Much like the man sitting across from him.</p>
<p>Sherlock shrugged, but the gesture wasn’t as offhanded as he probably wanted it to look. All evening, it was like he wanted to impress John. Which did make sense. He <em>was</em> writing an article on the man. The more exciting it was, the better for his image. Perhaps it would even mean an uptick in cases. But was it more than that? There was definitely something crackling between them. A good potential partnership at the least. Understanding. Chemistry. John wasn’t ready to figure out what that meant exactly.</p>
<p>“Some days. Others it’s wading through old newspapers or talking to batshit conspiracy theorists or sneezing your way through fifteen boxes of useless tchotchkes from 1967.”</p>
<p>“And filing finished cases away in a file cabinet?” John asked, attempting to steer the conversation back to the red folders he’d seen earlier. It was the second time he’d mentioned them since they’d left the flat hours before, his determination far from flagging despite the evening’s excitement.</p>
<p>Sherlock scoffed. “Dog with a bone.”</p>
<p>“Come on,” John wheedled. “People want to know what you do, your process, how you discern the fakers. And that includes those mysterious red folders.”</p>
<p>“If I tell you what those folders mean, and show one to you, will you leave it be?” Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed at John.</p>
<p>“Cross my heart.”</p>
<p>“Fine.” He sighed and steepled his hands in front of his face. “Those are cases I don't have the resources or technology to disprove. <em>Yet</em>.”</p>
<p>John raised his eyebrows. “Yet being the operative word?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“Is there a commonality between them all?”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s eyes darted around John’s face while his own stayed blank. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“Is there a certain type of supernatural phenomenon that’s harder to disprove?”</p>
<p>Was it John’s imagination, or did the man relax a little?</p>
<p>“Ah. No. Just cases with the right occurrence of events to make disproving difficult at this point in time.”</p>
<p>“And you’ll show me one of these … scarlet files to me?”</p>
<p>Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Scarlet. How … precise. And dramatic.”</p>
<p>John winked at him. “I am a journalist.”</p>
<p>The corner of Sherlock’s mouth went up. “That you are. Well then. Shall we go?” He waved the server down for the bill, and then they headed out into the cold January night.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Twenty minutes later found them back in Sherlock’s lounge, sitting with cups of tea and warming themselves by the fire. On Sherlock’s lap sat a single scarlet folder, looking less innocuous than a folder ought to. John started his recorder and nodded at the man sat across from him.</p>
<p>“It didn’t take me long moving in paranormal circles to grow tired of the ersatz drama that surrounds the field,” Sherlock explained, hands curled around his mug, eyes trained on the folder. “Most cases were also far too easy to figure out. There were obvious signs, if you knew where to look. When my grandmother died and left me a sizeable inheritance …”</p>
<p>“You used it to offer the reward,” John concluded, sipping his lapsang souchong, letting the smoky warmth curl up cozily in his belly. The room was far more comforting than his own cold, gray bedsit. He was glad he hadn’t decided to wait until later to do this. It was a perfect end to his unexpected, exciting day.</p>
<p>Sherlock nodded. “My mind was growing stagnant. I needed a challenge.”</p>
<p>“How many cases that you’ve investigated have come as a result of the challenge?”</p>
<p>“Three hundred and twelve.”</p>
<p>John’s draw dropped. “In five years?”</p>
<p>The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked. “One million pounds is a lot of money, and humans are highly susceptible to apophenia.”</p>
<p>“Apophenia?”</p>
<p>Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. “The perceived connection between unrelated things. It's the mind's need to make sense of random events. To create patterns no matter how spurious the connection. It's what makes people believe they hear demonic voices when playing certain rock albums backwards. Or what makes the sport fan convinced that a ritual they do can affect the outcome of the game.”</p>
<p>“Or what makes someone with a recently deceased loved one think the strange noises in their house are the result of a ghost?”</p>
<p>“Precisely,” Sherlock said with a nod.</p>
<p>“How many scarlet files are there?” John asked, getting back on track.</p>
<p>Sherlock rolled his eyes at the name. “Thirty-six.”</p>
<p>John whistled lowly. “Just over ten percent?”</p>
<p>“I am very good at what I do.”</p>
<p>“And so humble,” John mumbled. More loudly he asked, “What case is this?” He nodded at the folder.</p>
<p>Sherlock put down his tea and passed it to John. While John skimmed the top page, case notes on a Robert Torres, Sherlock got up and booted a laptop on his desk. He motioned John over. “DVD?”</p>
<p>John pulled out a DVD sleeve from the folder and handed it over. Sherlock inserted the disc, labeled “Torres,” and waited for the media viewer to open. “A good portion of the media I receive are in VHS and Super 8 formats. But rather than haul out a projector every time I need to review something, I have the contents transferred to a DVD,” he explained as the video opened.</p>
<p>John nodded, looking over his shoulder at the screen. It was the standard home video fair: a boy’s birthday party. Kids were chattering excitedly as they gathered around the guest of honor, who was sat in front of a lit birthday cake.</p>
<p>“It looks like a normal party,” John said. “What’s paranormal about that?”</p>
<p>“Keep watching,” Sherlock replied in a low voice. “Wait for it. There. Do you see it?”</p>
<p>John searched the screen. “No.” Then something to the side caught his eye. “Wait. Maybe … I see a … shadow?”</p>
<p>He squinted. It was a man. Or the shadow of a man. A dark shadow in the background, standing right next to an old shed. It looked like a tall man wearing a hat, but its proportions were all ... stretched. It was impossibly thin. He almost mistook it for the shadow of a tree except that it looked like it had arms and legs. The video’s graininess made it hard for John to tell though.</p>
<p>“What is it?” he asked as the video turned to black.</p>
<p>“There’s more,” Sherlock replied as a new scene popped up on the screen.</p>
<p>It was another home video, but this time of a wedding. It looked much newer than the birthday party, perhaps from the last few years. John searched the screen, knowing what he was looking for now. It took a bit, but he eventually found it. He pointed to the area by the organist. It was the same shape as the first: long, thin, possibly wearing a hat. With the better video quality, he swore he could make out long fingers this time, so long they’d be the length of an adult’s forearm. Just seeing the shadow gave him chill bumps. It looked … wrong.</p>
<p>“The same shadow.”</p>
<p>Sherlock nodded.</p>
<p>“So, is this file and DVD a whole bunch of cases of shadowy figures on film?” John asked as the film went blank again.</p>
<p>“Not exactly. The first was a boy named Bobby. It was taken almost thirty years ago in Pennsylvania. The second was from three years ago in San Francisco. The groom’s name is Robert Torres.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” John wasn’t understanding the connection. Different locations, different types of events, different filming devices.</p>
<p>“Bobby is Robert.”</p>
<p>“Oh. Oh God. So that shadow thing …”</p>
<p>“Whatever it is, it was there when he was five, and again when he was thirty-two,” Sherlock confirmed.</p>
<p>“Shit. It’s following him?” John gripped the back of Sherlock’s chair.</p>
<p>“One must not speculate without all of the facts.”</p>
<p>John’s chill bumps were back. If the great Sherlock Holmes hadn’t solved it, it must be real, right? “Don’t you owe the person who sent you the videos one mill?”</p>
<p>“There is an explanation,” Sherlock argued. “I just haven’t found it yet. The burden of proof isn’t on me, especially in this case, where the footage is third or fourth generation. I can’t be certain of the geography of each of the events. A lot of technical questions remain unanswered.”</p>
<p>“What did Torres say when you explained this to him?”</p>
<p>“He was unwilling to proceed.”</p>
<p>“And he wasn’t angry with the lack of reward?”</p>
<p>“He never specifically mentioned the reward,” said Sherlock as he closed the laptop lid. “Just said he’d heard of me from a recent write-up concerning the reward, and he thought I might be able to help him figure out what was happening.”</p>
<p>John mentally worked through a list of questions. “You don’t think he doctored the footage?”</p>
<p>“I’m difficult to fool. I understand the latest in technology, and I can tell when people lie. He seemed truthful, especially considering he never demanded payment.”</p>
<p>“Hmm.” John wondered if that was the full story. Surely someone willing to send two different sets of video footage, and who seemed genuine, wanted more of an answer than that. He made a note to talk to Mike about getting in touch with Robert Torres. It might make for an interesting second article. He was supposed to be moving on to a new topic for the next post, but people rescuing endangered animals from private buyers just didn’t pique his interest the way the paranormal—or Sherlock, if he was being honest—did.</p>
<p>He took his leave soon after, citing fatigue, but when he returned to his flat, he didn’t go to bed. His mind raced, going over the events of the evening and the scarlet file case over and over. Unable to sleep, he ended up doing as much internet research as he could. He finally dropped off around dawn, after sending an email to Mike concerning the new angle the blog series was taking and asking for his advice on getting in touch with Torres.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’ve pulled the first scarlet file case and some of the dialogue from The Black Tapes podcast transcript from episodes <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-101-a-tale-of-two-tapes-part-i.html">1.1</a> and <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-102-a-tale-of-two-tapes-part-ii.html">1.2</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Tall Man</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which we learn about one of Sherlock's unsolved cases, The Tall Man.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Again, I’m pulling dialogue/case details from TBT podcast transcript from episodes <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-101-a-tale-of-two-tapes-part-i.html">1.1</a> and <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-102-a-tale-of-two-tapes-part-ii.html">1.2</a>. I am using quite a few direct quotes (or nearso) from the show in this chapter, because it’s way creepier than I could ever hope to be, but I won’t do this on every case they investigate. I just wanted to give you a sense of how the investigations would work.</p>
<p>This is the creepiest chapter in the story. If you’re a wimp like me, maybe read this during the day time. ;) If you make it past this chapter, it goes more into conspiracy territory rather than horror. Much safer.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Full disclosure, readers. At the time of this posting, I’ve gained a new flatmate. Or. He’s gained me, I reckon. You see, just after the events that I explain in the following paragraphs took place, I came home to find my block of flats up in flames. I can’t say I’m too bothered by that. It was a shit flat, and I’m happy to be out. War correspondents tend to not accumulate many things, so not much was lost in the fire, and the insurance money meant I could finally buy a new laptop. Finding new digs in London, however, is daunting. It’s not a cheap place to live. Still, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, if I’m stuck in England anyway.</p>
  <p>Luckily, I’ve made some new acquaintances since I started writing this blog series, and I moved into a new flat within twenty minutes of seeing the old one burn. This is where the full disclosure comes in. My new flatmate is one Sherlock Holmes. Yes, that Sherlock Holmes, the one I wrote about in my last post (as if there could be anyone else with that name). He happened to be dropping me off when we saw the burning building, and he offered the spare room at his. He’d been looking for a flatmate anyway, and I wasn’t about to turn down cheap rent in Central London, so I agreed to move in. So now you know. On with the actual case.</p>
</blockquote><p>***</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>266 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>It took five days for John to convince Mike to let him interview Robert Torres, then another three to get in touch with the subject himself. He decided Sherlock should be invited to participate as well, and it didn’t take much persuading, which made John believe he wasn’t happy with how things had ended during his initial investigation. Because Robert lived in California, they met over a video call. It was ten days since he’d met Sherlock. His first article had been posted four days after that initial meeting, and he was chomping at the bit to get a second story out, especially once he read through the scarlet file and learned a little more backstory.</p>
<p>Soon after the Torres’s wedding, strange things began happening to them. They consulted several experts, including Philip Anderson, with no success. That’s when they went to Sherlock. Appliances starting on their own, people asking about his tall friend when he’d clearly been somewhere alone, random noises in the home, feelings of being followed. Torres’s wife, Maria, started getting jumpy. She was the one who called in first priests, then investigators. Something happened when Sherlock was called in, because they stopped looking into it soon after. John was dying to know the details.</p>
<p>John arrived at Baker Street half an hour before the meeting was scheduled to begin. Mrs. Hudson let him in, offering tea and biscuits as they made their way up the stairs.</p>
<p>“Sherlock’s been in a mood the past couple of days. This case didn’t go well for him the first time, you see, and he worries. Poor dear.” She tsked as she led him through the door to the kitchen. Sherlock sat at the table, a microscope in front of him, though his gaze was on a notebook next to it.</p>
<p>“John is here, dear,” she said to him.</p>
<p>John stopped just inside the door, watching the landlady prepare tea (not the housekeeper indeed) as Sherlock hummed but otherwise continued to ignore them. As the kettle clicked off, his head shot up. “Oh, John!” He twisted in his seat, his eyes widening, and John gave a small nod.</p>
<p>“Hello. What you got there?” he came closer to lean over.</p>
<p>Sherlock shut the microscope off and closed his notebook. “Nothing. It’s … nothing.” He stood up and looked around the flat. John followed his gaze, noting the place was as messy as it had been the last time.</p>
<p>“I meant to … Sorry … Mess … I was going to … Sorry.” He darted into the lounge and began grabbing things.</p>
<p>John’s eyebrows went up. He’d not seen the man so flustered yet. Bad day? Frustrating case? He watched Sherlock flutter around the room, stacking folders together, shoving tapes in drawers, closing laptops.</p>
<p>“It’s fine. Really.” He smiled.</p>
<p>Sherlock’s gaze met John’s, and he slowed his movements. “Right. Of course. Yes.”</p>
<p>He continued tidying for a while but came to sit in the same chair as he had last time when Mrs. Hudson brought in the tea. John took the chair opposite—it was a nice, comfortable chair that seemed to mold to his frame perfectly. The three chatted until the time for the interview approached, then Mrs. Hudson left, saying she’d “leave you boys to your work.”</p>
<p>Sherlock set up a laptop at his desk, and John took a seat next to him, leaning over so they were both on the screen. He was close enough to get a whiff of spice from Sherlock’s aftershave. It smelled nice. A ringing came from the laptop speakers, and Sherlock accepted the call.</p>
<p>Torres looked older and more tired than he had in the last video John had seen of him. His hair was a bit grey, and there were dark circles under his eyes. He nodded at them.</p>
<p>“Mr. Holmes. Mr. Watson.”</p>
<p>“Please, call me John.”</p>
<p>“Then I’m Robert.”</p>
<p>“Let’s start from the beginning, what you first told me,” said Sherlock, getting right into it.</p>
<p>John made sure he was recording the call. “Robert, can you explain in more depth the events that led you to get in touch with Sherlock? Um, Mr. Holmes?”</p>
<p>It was Robert’s turn to raise his eyebrows, though he said nothing, instead going straight into his tale.</p>
<p>“I was working late. It was our corporate year end, so I had to get our taxes in order. Except for the night janitor who was working on the floor above me, I was alone in the building. And as I was locking my office door, I heard something coming from the far end of the hallway.”</p>
<p>“Did you know what the sound was?” John asked.</p>
<p>“A microwave, from our office kitchen. I walked down to the room, and I turned on the light. There was nobody there, but the microwave was on, cooking … nothing. It was empty.”</p>
<p>“You’re certain you were alone?” John asked. Robert nodded. “How can you be sure?”</p>
<p>“I spoke with the night janitor on my way out. He'd already cleaned that wing of the building, there was nobody but me. And there was something else.” Robert hesitated before continuing. “As I was leaving, he asked me if my friend was gonna be staying, and if so, he would need to sign in.”</p>
<p>John glanced at Sherlock, who tilted his head but said nothing, before looking back at the screen. “You said you were working alone, so what friend was he talking about?”</p>
<p>“He said he could see me working in my office from the second floor, directly across the courtyard from my office. He said he saw two of us in my office, me and ‘the tall man.’”</p>
<p>“Those were his words? ‘The tall man?’”</p>
<p>“Yeah, his words exactly. It was creepy, but not the first time the mistake had been made. This happened all the time. Appliances turning on, random banging noises, I can't tell you the amount of times people thought I was with somebody when I was clearly alone.”</p>
<p>“How long did this go on?” John asked, feeling a thrill at the story. This was far more interesting than he’d expected, even after all he knew about, and experienced around, Sherlock.</p>
<p>“For at least a year.”</p>
<p>“What about Maria?” he said, bringing Robert’s wife into the tale.</p>
<p>Robert nodded. “She heard things too. Voices when nobody was home. Sometimes she would lose time, an hour here or there. It was her that decided to call the priest and eventually the paranormal investigators.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “She was reasonable about the whole thing at first. Pragmatic. She treated it like a cockroach infestation, or termites. But that didn't last. And pretty soon, she was … acting different. Crazy. She became <em>convinced</em> that there were demons in our house. She would chant and burn sage. I honestly thought she was gonna have a nervous breakdown.”</p>
<p>“So you called Sherlock?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. It didn't take him long to figure out that we were experiencing what he called um, what was that again?”</p>
<p>“Apophenia,” Sherlock said.</p>
<p>“Yeah, that.”</p>
<p>“Around the time he was looking into your case, something changed, didn't it?” John continued.</p>
<p>The longer they talked, the more exhausted Robert looked. Like just reliving it took another five years of his life. John couldn’t even imagine dealing with all of this, even if it had a reasonable explanation. The not knowing would drive him mad.</p>
<p>“Yeah, things settled,” Robert said. “I didn’t feel like I was being followed, the noises and sightings stopped. It was calm … at first. But then, things had become very strained between me and Maria. She was consulting psychics, mediums, spending a lot of money. We fought a lot. I told her what Mr. Holmes said, that it was just apoph– apophenia. She wouldn't listen, she was really worried about our son.”</p>
<p>“He’s called Sammy, right?” John clarified, thinking back on the notes he’d read.</p>
<p>“Right. He was four at the time. After Mr. Holmes left, the things that used to happen to me started happening to him. First time I remember it happening was around eleven at night. Maria and I were watching TV. She went to check on Sammy, and I heard her scream. I ran in, I saw her holding onto Sammy, and he was crying.”</p>
<p>“What had happened?”</p>
<p>Robert’s face tightened. “She said she saw someone standing over his bed, Sammy's bed. Someone … someone very tall and very thin, his head almost touched the ceiling. She screamed, and then turned on the light to get a better look, and it disappeared.”</p>
<p>Sherlock interrupted, shaking his head. “She’s seen the videos, she knew what the thing from them looked like. It isn’t out of the realm of possibility that she translated a shadow in the dark into an image she was already familiar with.”</p>
<p>“It happened more than once,” Robert argued. “She was giving him a bath a few weeks later when she felt something behind her. When she looked, it was that tall thing in black standing in the doorway. It almost gave her a heart attack.”</p>
<p>“No video evidence, I assume?” Sherlock asked, his face as blank as ever.</p>
<p>“No. We were all pretty upset at this point.”</p>
<p>“How many events?”</p>
<p>“Five? Six? Seven?”</p>
<p>“And then she moved out?” Sherlock continued. John ceded the questioning to the other man, knowing he knew what to ask more than John would. Plus, he was interested to see Sherlock’s process in action.</p>
<p>Robert nodded.</p>
<p>“When did she move?”</p>
<p>“A few months after the first event.”</p>
<p>“I'm sorry.”</p>
<p>John was surprised to hear the apology. Sherlock didn’t seem like the type to apologize. But he looked genuinely contrite, as if he’d caused the events himself.</p>
<p>Robert apparently thought so as well. “Yeah, you should be. The other paranormal investigators called it evil, said it was a malevolent spirit. Whatever it was, you told me you'd prove that they were just shadows, that there was nothing to be afraid of.”</p>
<p>Sherlock frowned. “I stand by that. They’re all just shadows, tricks of the light.”</p>
<p>“My wedding?”</p>
<p>“Same.”</p>
<p>“Just coincidence?” taunted Robert.</p>
<p>Sherlock’s face tightened, and he looked loathe to admit it. “Yes, just … coincidence.”</p>
<p>“Sammy too?”</p>
<p>“Your wife believes these shadows are more than what they are. The burden of proof lies with whomever is claiming the existence of something outside the natural world. She's bending reality to her preconceived ideas, she's seeing these shadows around Sammy because she expects to see them.”</p>
<p>Robert paused. “You were supposed to help us.”</p>
<p>Sherlock doubled down on his point, but John could tell it was partially from guilt. He’d been there before himself.</p>
<p>“There is nothing paranormal about those shadows. Your wife chose to believe something else. It's a choice, I can't force her to believe me.”</p>
<p>“Stop. Just … stop.” Robert looked away and heaved a breath.</p>
<p>Things grew even more tense, and John knew they’d have a hard time getting much more out of their interviewee. After a few more questions about further events and the Torres’ split, they ended the call.</p>
<p>John turned to face Sherlock. “So you think, from their perspective, that they think this is real, right? They’re not faking it on purpose. It’s just an amazing set of coincidences that happened to surround one family?” John believed in coincidence, but that was a lot of them stacked up on top of each other.</p>
<p>Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “To an extent. That many coincidences <em>is</em> too many. But a couple of them, along with people who <em>want</em> to see something, to make sense out of a few odd things, that’s more believable.</p>
<p>“Apophenia?”</p>
<p>“Exactly.”</p>
<p>Though a part of him wanted to believe something more sinister was going on, John’s practical side ceded to Sherlock’s argument. There would be more evidence in the world of ghosts or demons or whatever the tall man was if they existed. But as Sherlock said, because these were abnormal situations, the burden of proof was on the one stating it was real.</p>
<p>After the meeting with Robert, they called Maria Torres to hear her side. Her list of events matched Robert’s pretty well. Sherlock, of course, got into an argument with her about whether she was unconsciously making things up. John managed to call a cease fire.</p>
<p>“There’s something else, something Robert doesn’t know about,” Maria confessed after she and Sherlock had backed off. She picked up her laptop and walked down a hall into a room decorated for a young boy—Sammy’s room. She opened the cupboard door and moved some clothes out of the way, then pointed the laptop camera at it.</p>
<p>John squinted. “A bit of damp?” he guessed, looking over at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn’t say anything.</p>
<p>It looked like a black charcoal or burn stain along the back wall. Because of the topic of their conversation, John could imagine it looked like the face from Munch’s <em>The Scream</em>, but he doubted that’s what it was.</p>
<p>“No,” said Maria.</p>
<p>“Did Sammy draw it?” asked Sherlock.</p>
<p>Maria turned the laptop to face her again, her expression sour. “Does it look like a child would draw it?”</p>
<p>“Yes,” Sherlock replied.</p>
<p>“Well he didn’t.”</p>
<p>“Thank you for showing us, Maria,” John interrupted before another argument could develop. “Was there anything else you wanted to show us?”</p>
<p>Maria shook her head.</p>
<p>“Could we speak with Sammy now?” he continued, and Maria , surprisingly, agreed.</p>
<p>She sat the laptop on the kitchen table and went to get Sammy from where he was playing in the backyard. They returned, and the boy sat in front of the laptop, Maria next to him.</p>
<p>“Hi, Sammy. I’m Mr. Watson and this is Mr. Holmes. Can we ask you a few questions?”</p>
<p>The boy nodded. “You want to know about my friend,” he said knowingly.</p>
<p>“What friend?” John asked.</p>
<p>“Tall Paul.”</p>
<p>Well, <em>that</em> was creepy. John ignored the chill up his spine and continued the questioning. “Tall Paul? Who is that?”</p>
<p>“He doesn't like me talking about him.”</p>
<p>John smiled. “Well, you're talking about him with me.”</p>
<p>“That's okay. Because you can see him too.” Sammy’s eyes seemed to be looking at Sherlock, but it was hard to tell with laptop cameras.</p>
<p>“Sammy,” Sherlock cut in, leaning into John’s space. John didn’t shift away. “Where is Tall Paul now?”</p>
<p>“In my closet.”</p>
<p>“Can you show me?”</p>
<p>Sammy tilted his head. “Why are you following him?”</p>
<p>“Who says I'm following him? Sammy, is Tall Paul in your kitchen with you right now?” Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed.</p>
<p>The boy paused. “He says you don't want to meet him.”</p>
<p>Maria leaned into the screen. “I’m sorry, Mr. Watson. Sammy has a doctor’s appointment.”</p>
<p>“Right, of course,” John agreed. “Thank you for letting us speak to you both.”</p>
<p>They signed off, and John leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. “Well that was slightly creepy.”</p>
<p>Sherlock sighed. “John. If you keep talking about a shadowy figure following a child, and that child suddenly tells you he's friends with that shadowy figure and gives it a scary name, you’re going to see that kid as creepy.”</p>
<p>John huffed a laugh. “I suppose you’re right.”</p>
<p>Sherlock smiled a little. “Of course I am.” He looked at his watch. “Lunch?”</p>
<p>Was it odd, the way Sherlock kept inviting him along to eat? John shrugged to himself. He <em>was</em> hungry. “Why not?”</p>
<p>“So, what about the class photo?” John asked later over sushi. Maria had emailed the few pictures of Sammy she’d kept after the strange events began in earnest—most of which she’d burned when the shadow kept popping up in them, just as they had with Robert when he was a child. One was Sammy’s class picture, shadow firmly in place to the side.</p>
<p>“Does it actually look like a figure,” Sherlock contested, “or is that what you’re seeing because of the context?”</p>
<p>John shrugged. “Possible. But I don’t think Robert wants to believe, but he’s seeing it too.”</p>
<p>Sherlock put down his chopsticks and sat back in his chair. “Think of it this way. Maybe Robert and Maria are stuck in an unhappy marriage. Maybe Maria is experiencing a mental breakdown, and that is the thing taking a toll on their marriage. These sightings of shadow people are simply an externalization of everything wrong in their marriage. They can't face the reality that the only thing wrong in their lives is their failing union.” He waited for John to reply, then added on a frustrated “What?” when he stayed silent.</p>
<p>John rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying not to be a dick about it. He wasn’t sure why he tried. Sherlock was a dick ninety percent of the time, and yet he managed just fine.</p>
<p>“You don't find that a bit patronizing? To reduce their experiences, which sound frightening to them, to a bad marriage?”</p>
<p>“I never find the truth patronizing.”</p>
<p>“But you’ve mentioned several times since I met you about the importance of evidence. But there's very little evidence that they have a bad marriage.”</p>
<p>“They're separated right now, aren't they?”</p>
<p>John shook his head. The man was obsessed with debunking every interesting bit of the case. “We’ve heard about four distinct instances of the strange happening to this family. How is that not evidence of <em>something</em>?”</p>
<p>Sherlock scoffed and picked up a slice of sushi roll. “I wouldn't call any of that evidence.”</p>
<p>“You know, you're actually bordering on condescension at this point,” John replied.</p>
<p>“I just don't see anything supernatural about any of this. As a journalist, I'd like to think your mind would be a little bit less … pliable.”</p>
<p>“Seriously?” John felt his blood pressure rise. The man had some nerve.</p>
<p>They finished their meal in silence while John attempted to calm his temper before it exploded. He could see why so many people in the paranormal community had such a hard time getting along with Sherlock Holmes.</p>
<p>“We can share a cab out,” Sherlock offered as they stood awkwardly on the pavement after. “I’ll pay.”</p>
<p>John took it for the olive branch it was—the man had outright apologized once today, and John didn’t expect it to happen a second time—and nodded. “Fine.”</p>
<p>The ride to John’s flat was quiet, but not as strained as the end of their meal, John having had time to calm down. Sherlock had made some good points, even if he was an arsehole when explaining them to others. Hell. He’d called John an idiot during that serial killer case, and that was only hours after they’d met. He was learning to shrug off these anti-social behaviors, especially given how much excitement Sherlock offered in exchange.</p>
<p>He was back to being in a good mood by the time the cab rounded the corner to his block of flats. He was getting ready to offer his goodbyes when the smell of smoke and something in his peripheral vision caught his eye.</p>
<p>“Shit.”</p>
<p>The whole building was up in flames, and two fire engines blocked the road directly in front of the fire. Luckily it was a quiet area in general, so traffic wasn’t too backed up.</p>
<p>John’s stomach clenched. “Fuck. What am I going to do now? I was barely affording <em>this</em> shite place.” His brain started churning. Harry? No, not if he could avoid it. Mike? Maybe for a few days. Most of his work mates were covering wars around the globe, so they were out. He had some money saved, but it was already being used to cover his shit of a flat. Anything more would bleed him dry. He would get some insurance money, but it would mostly pay to replace his current possessions, few as they were.</p>
<p>“I …,” Sherlock began, drawing out the sound. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.”</p>
<p>John shook himself free of his musings. “What?”</p>
<p>“Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”</p>
<p>“Just like that, you’re offering me a place to stay, even though we barely know each other?” John stared at him in disbelief.</p>
<p>Sherlock nodded, looking out the window to the blazing building. “There’s a spare room upstairs. You know I’m a workaholic and a bit untidy. My being an arrogant dickhead hasn’t scared you away yet, nor has my brother’s interfering. So … I’m offering.”</p>
<p>For a moment, John’s spirits lifted, but then fell almost as quickly. “I can’t afford Central London.”</p>
<p>“I told you, Mrs. Hudson is giving me a discount.”</p>
<p>“Still …”</p>
<p>“Plus,” Sherlock rushed to continue, finally looking at John with big eyes, “I lost the rest of my team, they wouldn’t work with me. I need help with the Work. I can pay you. It should give you enough for your part of the rent plus expenses.”</p>
<p>“If you can pay for help, why do you need a flatmate?”</p>
<p>“To get Mrs. Hudson and my brother off my back. They think I can’t live alone.”</p>
<p>John smiled. “I had noticed Mrs. Hudson’s mothering, but your brother doesn’t trust me.”</p>
<p>Sherlock frowned in earnest confusion. “What makes you say that?”</p>
<p>“He kidnapped and grilled me.”</p>
<p>“It was a test,” Sherlock said. “He was actually rather impressed with you.”</p>
<p>“Huh. Umm, well then. You’re sure?”</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.”</p>
<p>“Right. Okay. Then yeah, I’ll accept your offer.” John felt a smile twitch at his lips.</p>
<p>A shy grin bloomed on Sherlock’s face in return. “Good.”</p>
<p>***</p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>And that’s the case of the Torres family. I’m afraid it’s not wrapped up nice and neat with a bow as I’m sure you, dear readers, would prefer. But that’s life, isn’t it? And just because we don’t have an ending to it now doesn’t mean I’m giving up. I’ll keep you updated as we investigate further.</p>
  <p>Yup, you read that right. We. Along with moving into the upstairs room of Sherlock’s flat, I’ve also taken on the role of his old team in helping him investigate paranormal cases. So, this series of blog posts will no longer be me investigating Sherlock Holmes, but instead will be the two of us looking further into the scarlet file cases, along with anything new that comes our way. I don’t know how long this series will last, but I’m grateful that Mike was amenable to the switch in topic. For now, expect weekly updates for the foreseeable future.</p>
  <p>Next week, we dive into another scarlet file and investigate the Unsound. Until then, I remain your intrepid journalist—or blogger, or whatever I am now—John Watson.</p>
</blockquote>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Unsound</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which we learn about a mysterious sound that causes death within a year of hearing it ...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Details of the case and a few bits of dialogue in this chapter come from episode <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-103-the-unsound.html">1.3</a> of TBT. </p>
<p>CW for a gory explanation of an off-scene death and for mention of John’s state of mind before he met Sherlock. </p>
<p>P.S. Dabic is pronounced Dab-itch.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Sherlock Holmes on a case is a sight to behold. His quick mind catches everything of import in the room, and not a single lie is safe. He’s cutting and intelligent, quick and blunt. His eyes glitter, and his ridiculous coat swirls dramatically. Like I said, a sight to behold. Sherlock Holmes without a case, however, is a right tosser. What does this have to do with the Unsound case I promised you last week? Well, it turns out life as a paranormal investigator is fairly busy. At least, it is for the renowned Sherlock Holmes. So it wasn’t until we had a slow day that I was able to convince him to tell me about this case.</p>
</blockquote><p>***</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>263 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>“Bored.”</p>
<p>“Hmmm.”</p>
<p>“I said: BORED.”</p>
<p>“I heard ya.” John turned a page of the newspaper and forced himself not to look up at Sherlock. He was already aware of the ways he tried to get attention and was determined not to give in to the man.</p>
<p>“If I don’t get a new case soon, my mind will atrophy. Section me now, John, it’ll save you time later.”</p>
<p>“Drama queen much?”</p>
<p>Sherlock, indeed the drama queen, was collapsed picturesquely on the sofa, one arm dangling toward the floor, the other posed (oh, most definitely posed) on his forehead. He still wore his pajamas, despite it being mid-afternoon, covered with a silky dressing gown that draped perfectly around his body. John tried not to smile. It’d been three days since he’d moved in, and he’d mostly spent the time talking to the insurance company, buying new clothes and electronics, and getting himself settled in his new home. Sherlock likewise had been busy doing … whatever it was he did for his job. There had been lab equipment on the kitchen table that had at one point been abandoned for three hours while Sherlock dashed out of the flat to who knew where. This was their first day really sharing a living space.</p>
<p>John, being Sherlock’s new “team,” spent the morning organizing the lounge-cum-office so that it was both livable and functional as a work space. Folders were alphabetized and placed in their correct cabinets, equipment was neatly lined up with cords placed tidily behind them on a table next to the sofa. Boxes of VHS and Super 8 footage were stacked against the wall, no longer tripping hazards. It was a morning well spent, despite Sherlock complaining that he hadn’t hired John to “mess up my perfect filing system.” John had ignored him.</p>
<p>He had been eyeing the kitchen mess when Sherlock started his swooning Regency act, so he let his mind switch gears onto the other task he had on his to-do list.</p>
<p>“You have a drawer full of unsolved cases, but still you whinge that there is nothing to do, hmm?” He crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes at his new flatmate.</p>
<p>Sherlock scowled. “I’ve tried solving those. Technology is not sufficiently advanced yet.”</p>
<p>“That may be, but now you live with someone who is investigating those scarlet files for his other job, and he could use your help explaining things. Maybe you can see a new solution while you’re at it.”</p>
<p>Sherlock twisted his body so that he was partially sitting up. He looked like a dog who had just been shown a new chew toy. It was far more endearing than it should have been. “What did you have in mind?”</p>
<p>John walked over to the side of the desk he’d claimed as his own, grabbed the folder he’d placed there earlier, and dropped it on Sherlock’s lap. “The Unsound.”</p>
<p>Sherlock groaned. “There is nothing to prove or disprove with this one. It’s just a silly urban legend.”</p>
<p>“Well I like urban legends, so I wanna do this one.”</p>
<p>With a huge sigh, Sherlock pushed himself all the way up. “Fine. It’s extremely dull though. Your readers will hate it.”</p>
<p>John held in a smile, made some tea, and went to sit in what he now considered his chair as he started up his audio recorder. Sherlock came to sit across from him. John handed him a second mug. He looked surprised at first but took it with a tiny pleased smile. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>“So, The Unsound.”</p>
<p>His fake ominous tone made Sherlock roll his eyes. “A case from a couple of months ago—another reason to not go over it again so soon.” John just smiled innocently, so Sherlock continued with a long-suffering sigh.</p>
<p>“Keith Dabic, he’s the guitarist for a metal band out of Glasgow called Hastur Rising. Heard of it?” John shook his head. “Not surprising. Their music is terrible. Anyway. Dabic contacted me after the band’s lead singer, Jeff Wendt, committed suicide by hammering a knife into his chest with a polo mallet.”</p>
<p>John grimaced. He’d seen some pretty gruesome things in the Middle East, but most of the violence wasn’t self-inflicted, apart from suicide bombers.</p>
<p>“It’s not a completely surprising end. The band was known for having altercations with the religious right, who claimed they promoted Satanism and/or occultism. There was a rumor they had sacrificed a cat on stage at a concert.”</p>
<p>“Wow, they sound like real winners.”</p>
<p>Sherlock hummed. “Anyway, before he died, Wendt became obsessed with the Unsound.”</p>
<p>“What’s that?”</p>
<p>“I first heard about it when my assistant mentioned it a few years back, but didn’t look into it until Dabic asked me to. It has different names: Diabolica Lyricasis, The Devil’s Note, The Hum. The most common myth surrounding it is that the Unsound summons or invites a demon into the world. Others say the Unsound is a musical note that was created by Lucifer as he fell, one that God can’t hear. There were also rumors of it being a creation of the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, some thought it was the Freemasons, most claim some affiliation with Aleister Crowley himself.”</p>
<p>“Okay … this sounds like your usual myth stuff. Where does the urban legend come in?”</p>
<p>“Patience. I’m getting there.” Sherlock settled deeper into his chair and sipped his tea.</p>
<p>“I can’t believe Sherlock Holmes is asking me to be patient,” John teased.</p>
<p>Sherlock scowled. “Do you want me to tell you about this case or not?”</p>
<p>John raised his hands placatingly.</p>
<p>“The urban legend is that everyone who hears the sound dies within a year.”</p>
<p>“Okay, <em>that’s</em> a bit scary.”</p>
<p>“Hmmm. There’s loads of mythology surrounding it, as you noted. But I researched it for well over a month, and the origins of the urban legend bits seem to have begun with a scientific outpost in Antarctica in 1962. They were recording and cataloging electromagnetic waves, and in the process picked up an odd audio wave pattern. At first, they thought it was a whale stranded under the ice, or the wind, or electromagnetic waves themselves. They were unable to look further into it, though, because they all died.”</p>
<p>John laughed. “You’re having me on. Next you’ll tell me they all died within a year of hearing it.”</p>
<p>Sherlock sighed.</p>
<p>“Seriously?</p>
<p>“One of them died on the base due to a staph infection, the other four died in a mountain climbing expedition, six months after their contract ended.” He paused for a sip of tea, then continued. “But it had nothing to do with the Unsound; it was merely a combination of bad luck and unsafe climbing conditions. The urban legend itself formed <em>because of</em> this expedition. I couldn’t find mention of it anywhere else prior to this event.”</p>
<p>“And after?”</p>
<p>Sherlock shook his head. “Just people twisting facts to fit the myth.”</p>
<p>John dropped his head back against his chair in frustration. “I think you use apophenia too often as a crutch.” He sat up straight. “What if you die in the next ten months? You listened to it when investigating this case two months back, didn’t you?”</p>
<p>“Then I’ll be dead, John, and the cause of it will have had nothing to do with the Unsound.”</p>
<p>“And your assistant? When did they first listen to it?”</p>
<p>“My former assistant has no bearing–”</p>
<p>“<em>When</em>, Sherlock.”</p>
<p>“Two years ago.”</p>
<p>“And are they still alive?”</p>
<p>Sherlock looked at his mug.</p>
<p>“Sherlock?”</p>
<p>“No,” he finally admitted quietly.</p>
<p>John threw up his hands. This was all becoming a little too real and too creepy. “You have <em>got</em> to be kidding me.”</p>
<p>“She constantly road her bike all over the city. The likelihood she would eventually have an accident was high. It had nothing to do with the Unsound.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know that.”</p>
<p>Sherlock sat up straighter, staring him down. “I guess you don’t want to listen to it then?”</p>
<p>John narrowed his eyes. “Why would I need to do that?”</p>
<p>There was a hint of challenge in the tilt of Sherlock’s jaw. “You’re a journalist. Aren’t you supposed to research everything you write about? Can you say you’ve fully investigated this case without listening to the Unsound?”</p>
<p>Sherlock did raise a good point. John had gone into active battle zones just to ensure his information was accurate, so why should he shy away from a sound that urban myth <em>claimed</em> would kill him within a year? But still he hesitated. His love of horror stories and urban myths meant that just a tiny bit of him wanted to believe it was true. No, not <em>wanted</em>. <em>Expected</em> it to be true. But if they were only on their second case and he was already chickening out, what use was it for him to continue?</p>
<p>“You swear you’ve listened to it?”</p>
<p>Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes. I spent hours running it through different audio analysis programs. I’ll listen to it with you again, and then show you my research.”</p>
<p>John took a deep breath. Was he really going to do this? “Fine. I’ll listen.”</p>
<p>With a bounce of his eyebrows and his sociopath grin (fake), Sherlock popped out of his chair to pull up the audio file on his laptop. John followed behind slowly, wondering what he was getting himself into—a question he’d been asking himself since he’d met the man.</p>
<p>It was odd, the sound. Not what he expected. Though, what <em>had</em> he expected? It was quiet, and the pitch was both high and low, kind of like far off horns. It <em>did</em> sound ethereal (or was it occult?) in nature.</p>
<p>Sherlock went on to explain many things that went over John’s very analog-trained brain, but he trusted that Sherlock knew what he was talking about. The most interesting facts were that humans shouldn’t be able to hear the sound but could anyway and that the patterns were regular enough to be mechanically produced, though Sherlock insisted it was organic in nature.</p>
<p>Over the next few days, John went off on his own for interviews with a professor of religious studies, Keith Dabic himself, and Jeff Wendt’s mother, but didn’t come up with much more than he already knew from Sherlock’s research. The more he talked to people who all believed in the Unsound, though, the more unnerved he felt. If these crazy stories were true, he’d be dead in less than a year. Then again, he kind of hadn’t expected to live through his last job, but he’d come through with only a bullet wound and nightmares as souvenirs. Dabic seemed to believe he had less than three months to live, given when he first heard the sound. John guessed he’d be safe enough waiting until Dabic’s death date had passed before freaking out.</p>
<p>The only other interesting thing to come of the interviews was what he found in Wendt’s private recording studio in Glasgow. The audio file set up on his (oddly) still-running computer was a song he’d been working on, but the audio mixer showed that the same waves as the Unsound were buried under the music. Only recognizing the wave pattern because of Sherlock’s explanations, John copied it and took it back with him to Baker Street to have his genius flatmate analyze it. He found nothing more than the Unsound and the recorded music itself, but further research showed that Wendt had made the song available for downloading on torrent sites and millions of people had downloaded it.</p>
<p>Sherlock scoffed over the idea that there was a reason to worry. “He was a troubled young man who wanted the world to suffer with him.”</p>
<p>“So we won’t be seeing a rash of unexplained deaths over the next year?” And beyond that time, considering people were still downloading it.</p>
<p>“Of course not. The Unsound isn’t real, John. Why are you so set on believing it is? God, why do I even try with your small minds?” Sherlock pushed long fingers through curly hair, and John looked away.</p>
<p>“It’s like you said. We humans want there to be a connection. We want to find meaning in this crazy world.”</p>
<p>“You’re saying you want to die.”</p>
<p>“No! I– Just. No.”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s face went white and tight, as if he hadn’t realized what he had implied. “I didn’t mean– I’m sor–”</p>
<p>“It’s fine, Sherlock.” John didn’t know what he’d do if Sherlock apologized about his slip up. He knew that Sherlock had realized his state of mind when they first met. He also knew that Sherlock, despite his careless and unfeeling attitude, didn’t mean to bring up such a delicate subject.</p>
<p>“I just … I want the things that happen around me to have meaning. To not be just random happenstance or a weird coincidence. I need to believe in something.”</p>
<p>“Believe in science!”</p>
<p>“I do, really. But science can’t explain everything.”</p>
<p>“Any sufficiently advanced technology is–”</p>
<p>“Indistinguishable from magic, yeah. I’ve read Clarke. But I’m okay with humans having myths when technology hasn’t advanced enough yet, okay? Let me have my stories.”</p>
<p>Sherlock frowned but nodded.</p>
<p>“What made you go into this field?” John asked. It was something that had been on his mind since they met.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“You’re intelligent—a genius in fact—you could have done anything: chemistry, physics, hell, you could have been a PI. What made you choose a field where you don’t believe any of the stories are true?”</p>
<p>Sherlock stared straight ahead, eyes narrowed as if peering into his own little world. “The truth is important to me,” he replied slowly. “It always has been. It’s why my first degree was in forensic pathology. But the more I learned about the world, the more frustrated I became with the untruths. I hated that people were being deceived because of some silly myth that no one had ever thought to investigate. It’s one thing to make up scary or outlandish stories knowing they’re not true, but when people are being <em>deceived</em> because of misinformation … It makes me angry. I think …” he laughed and looked sheepishly at John. “The first myth I debunked was Father Christmas.”</p>
<p>John smiled. “How old were you?”</p>
<p>“Four.”</p>
<p>“God, that’s young. Didn’t you miss having that sense of magic?”</p>
<p>“No, even when I believed, I was mostly frustrated that so much of the myth made no sense unless you believed in magic, which I’d seen no evidence of to that point. Even <em>Doctor Who</em> did a better job explaining the TARDIS than parents did explaining Santa Claus and his sleigh.”</p>
<p>“You know <em>Doctor Who</em>?”</p>
<p>Sherlock tossed his head. “Of course I do. It was touted as a children’s science show back when we were young. The new ones have leaned hard into the drama, though. Not nearly so exciting.”</p>
<p>“Well I know what we’re doing on our next day off.”</p>
<p>“Please don’t.”</p>
<p>“You know you want to,” John teased. “Just the sound of the opening theme gets you excited.”</p>
<p>“Does not.”</p>
<p>“It’s either that or James Bond.”</p>
<p>“Oh, God. This is one of those lesser of two evils things, isn’t it?”</p>
<p>John laughed. Even with all of Sherlock’s more frustrating foibles, living with him was proving to be fun.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Three weeks after John moved into Baker Street, he received a text from a private number:</p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>He’s not telling the whole truth. Look into Victor Trevor.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Victor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which we learn about a boy from Sherlock's past.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>It’s normal to learn about a friend’s history slowly over time. It’s not like we walk around with a file folder with our entire life stories that we give to new friends to read. And I’m fine with that. That’s one of the fun parts about a new friendship, learning what makes them tick. But with Sherlock, he knows all about you in thirty seconds. He can read your history in the set of your shoulders, the colour of your tie, the music you listen to when you’re stressed. And it’s amazing to see, no doubt, but it’s also frustrating and one sided. He knows so much about me, while I know so little about him. So, when I was tipped off about a person in Sherlock’s past, I just had to investigate.</p>
</blockquote><p>***</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>236 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>John liked to think he was a good journalist, good at investigating the myriad details in a story. So it was with some surprise that he realized he’d missed a dramatic era of Sherlock’s life. The mysterious text from a private number led him down a bit of a rabbit hole of surprise and confusion. And, because it was Sherlock Holmes, mystery.</p>
<p>It’s not that John had expected Sherlock to divulge every childhood friend just because they were flatmates, but he was annoyed at himself for missing this story, huge as it was in making Sherlock who he was as an adult.</p>
<p>Victor Trevor and Sherlock Holmes met around age 14. John couldn’t find much on their friendship, but there were pictures in a class paper, Sherlock looking even more baby-faced than he currently was, and more carefree too. They had stayed friends, both going to Oxford, though studying at different colleges. Though information on their friendship was sparse, he did find some academic awards and articles from their respective college newspapers, showing that Victor was almost as smart as Sherlock, but definitely more social. Victor had gone on to get his masters while Sherlock decided on a second degree in another field, and then a third. Through it all, they stayed friends.</p>
<p>Or had they been more? It was hard to say, the paper trail being thin. They were close enough to take a flat together for a year after they’d finished their degrees. They might have stayed together longer, but one day when they’d been on a trip to Brighton, Victor had disappeared. The story in the papers said Sherlock had gone into a pastry shop on the drive out, and when he’d returned, Victor was just … gone.</p>
<p>Sherlock had been a suspect, of course. He was the only one Victor knew in the tiny town they’d stopped in. But he was cleared in only a few days, and the blame had been put on a drifter that had been in the area. And that had been it.</p>
<p>It was mysterious, and John was a little hurt that Sherlock hadn’t shared this story with him, but they both had a lot of baggage; they weren’t obliged to tell each other everything. But then again, why had that text said to look into Victor if there wasn’t more to it than a simple case of a youth gone missing? What part did Victor play in this larger story John was attempting to tell on the blog? Sherlock hadn’t fully delved into the paranormal until after his disappearance, and it didn’t look as if Victor had been involved at all. Perhaps he was the reason Sherlock had dedicated his life to paranormal investigation. Was there something supernatural about his disappearance?</p>
<p>John ruminated on these things for a few days before deciding he should just ask his flatmate. He might not get the truth, but he wouldn’t know until he tried. He could always go to Mycroft if every other trail dead ended.</p>
<p>“Was Victor the reason you started up your investigations?” John asked one afternoon when they were both home. Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, eyes firmly attached to his microscope (there were livers and fingernails involved; John didn’t ask) while John wrote up his latest blog post—a freaky scarlet file case about girls wearing other people’s faces upside down. A case of writer’s block had his mind wandering, and as it did so often lately, it settled on the mystery of Victor Trevor, and he decided to finally bring up the topic.</p>
<p>Sherlock froze in his seat, but he didn’t back away from the microscope. “I told you why I started my investigations. I wanted to share the truth with people.”</p>
<p>“But something had to put you on the path.”</p>
<p>“Human idiocy put me on the path.”</p>
<p>“Then what about Victor?”</p>
<p>“What about him?”</p>
<p>John crossed his arms. “What happened in Hassocks in 2001?”</p>
<p>“A great many things, but as Hassocks has not come up in a case, I–”</p>
<p>“Sherlock. What happened on the fifth of October 2001 that involved you and Victor?”</p>
<p>Sherlock sat back from the microscope but stared into his lap instead of looking up at John. “I walked into a shop, and when I came out five minutes later, he was gone.” His voice was soft but matter of fact, devoid of emotion</p>
<p>“And there was nothing? No warning signs he wanted to leave his life? No clues showing that someone kidnapped him? Nothing? I don’t understand. You’re … <em>you</em>. How could there be no trail?” It made no sense. Sherlock was the man you went to when all other trails went cold. There was no way he couldn’t figure it out.</p>
<p>“I don’t know, John!” Sherlock shoved his fingers into his hair and curled his body in on itself. His next words were muffled but audible. “I <em>know</em> who I am, who I’m supposed to be, and it <em>killed</em> me to not be able to find him. I searched for <em>two years</em>. I followed every lead, no matter how tenuous, but there was <em>nothing</em>. He was just … gone.” He uncurled enough to peek up at John. “He was my best friend.”</p>
<p>His voice was small, his eyes red, his lips white. John’s heart broke.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean to dredge up the past li–”</p>
<p>“Then why did you ask?”</p>
<p>John rubbed his brow. “I got a text.”</p>
<p>Sherlock sat up a little more and said carefully, “A text.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Unknown number. It just said … <em>He’s not telling the whole truth. Look into Victor Trevor</em>.”</p>
<p>“So you assumed it had something to do with your blog series.”</p>
<p>John threw up his hands. “What else was I supposed to think? I have no need to know about him unless you decide to tell me. So the only reason someone has for sending a mysterious text is if it has to do with the blog.”</p>
<p>“It could be someone obsessed with me who—I don’t know—doesn’t like you writing the blog, or just wants to stir up trouble.”</p>
<p>“So you’re saying Victor has nothing—absolutely <em>nothing</em>—to do with your investigations?”</p>
<p>“He was my friend. He disappeared. It was unfortunate, it upset me, but it has nothing to do with the paranormal.” Sherlock rose from his stool and exited through the kitchen door.</p>
<p>“Where are you going?” John called out, following behind. He saw Sherlock putting on his coat and gloves.</p>
<p>“Out. I’ll be late.” He hurried down the stairs.</p>
<p>“Look. I’m sor–”</p>
<p>But Sherlock slammed the door before John had a chance to get out the full apology. He sighed and wandered back into the flat. He wasn’t sure he believed Sherlock. There <em>had</em> to be a reason John had been contacted, and he didn’t think it was an obsessive fan out to make trouble. He resolved to keep looking into it as quietly as possible.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“You wrote about Victor?!?”</p>
<p>John startled awake to find Sherlock looming over his bed.</p>
<p>“Whah?”</p>
<p>“On your blog. You wrote about my personal life. We didn’t agree to this.”</p>
<p>John sat up, putting his elbows on his raised knees and rubbing his face. He looked at the clock. Five-fucking-thirty.</p>
<p>“Seriously, Sherlock? This couldn’t wait until normal functioning hours?”</p>
<p>“I read the post at midnight. Be glad I waited this long.”</p>
<p>“Mmm.” He shook his head in an effort to wake himself up. There would be no sleep until they’d talked this through. “It was just a few lines. It’s not like I did an entire post on it.”</p>
<p>“Why did it need to be in there at all? I told you, Victor’s disappearance has nothing to do with my career or the scarlet files.” Sherlock’s face was hard, his hands fisted at his sides, his hair a rumpled mess. He still looked gorgeous, the fucker.</p>
<p>John sighed. “I just thought it was fair that my readers had all of the information. There has to be more to his disappearance than you think, if someone felt the need to tell me about it. This way I have people out there thinking things through to come up with an answer.”</p>
<p>“Your followers are conspiracy nuts and readers who enjoy adding unnecessary drama to an otherwise cut-and-dry story. All they’ll do is come up with more out-of-this-world explanations.”</p>
<p>“And who’s to say one of them won’t stumble on the truth?”</p>
<p>“Me. I say.” Sherlock dropped onto the bed next to John. “I don’t like having my life displayed for the world to gossip about.”</p>
<p>“I was trying to help, you know.”</p>
<p>“What?” Sherlock’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “How is nattering on about my private life helpful?”</p>
<p>“I … wanted to control the narrative as much as possible. As you say, my followers tend toward the conspiracy theorists. <em>Someone</em> was going to dig up your past. This way, I’ve got yours and Mycroft’s words telling the real story, rather than letting someone find it and make up their own account about it. I <em>am</em> a journalist, Sherlock. Sensationalism is not my thing. The truth is.”</p>
<p>“Mmm. The same cannot be said about most journalists, you know.” John could feel Sherlock relaxing next to him.</p>
<p>“That’s why you like me more than them,” he teased, trying to lighten the mood.</p>
<p>Sherlock cracked a small smile. “Indeed.”</p>
<p>They looked at each other for longer than necessary, and the tension between them changed. These little moments confused John. He was never sure if Sherlock was just trying to get a read on him as a human being, or if there was a deeper interest involved. It <em>felt</em> like the latter, but John was probably inserting his own hopes and feelings onto the situation. Sherlock didn’t feel things that way. And that was fine. Really, it was. He shook his head and looked away.</p>
<p>“Mind if I get some sleep now?”</p>
<p>“Right. Yes.” Sherlock nodded and stood up. “Sorry. About. Well, not sorry for being upset. I still think I had every right. But, I do apologize for waking you up so early.”</p>
<p>John shrugged. “I’m kinda used to it by this point.” Several times he’d been woken too early in the day by Sherlock shouting about a case. “And … I’m sorry too. I should have asked before writing about your private life.”</p>
<p>Sherlock paused to look at him, then nodded. “Good night, John.”</p>
<p>“Good morning, Sherlock.”</p>
<p>The door closed behind his roommate with a soft <em>snick</em>. John burrowed back under his covers and tried to escape back to dreamland for a while longer.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Things went quiet for a few months. John and Sherlock fought over something else and made up, and fought and made up, and fought and made up. They didn’t seem capable of just having a normal friendship. But they <em>were</em> friends. And John was happier than he’d been in ages. Between the scarlet files and new cases that came Sherlock’s way from the Met and their respective blogs, they stayed busy.</p>
<p>John got no new mysterious texts, and he was glad for it. He also found no new information on Victor. He’d even asked Mycroft, who had told him the same as what Sherlock had. He wouldn’t even confirm the exact nature of their relationship. So John put that investigation on the back burner and let himself delve into the cases he’d actually set out to write about.</p>
<p>His audience grew. The series was one of the most popular on the <em>UK Life</em> site, garnering the most comments and likes. He even started getting fan mail. Conspiracy theories abounded, and he tried to ignore them, fearing they’d influence how he saw the cases. He was already having trouble seeing things with as much skepticism as he had when he’d started. So many of the cases seemed to have no explanation, and given that they were the scarlet files, even Sherlock couldn’t disprove them.</p>
<p>Then, Keith Dabic disappeared, two months after John had originally spoken with him. There was no reason to think he was dead, despite his insistence he only had a few months left to live after hearing the Unsound, but one day he just was … gone. John heard about it through an email a fan had sent. Sherlock, of course, thought nothing of it, saying it was just another mentally disturbed man who couldn’t take living in reality anymore and had just decided to leave it all behind.</p>
<p>Three weeks later, John received an email from Dabic himself, or at least one from his email address. It contained a song file and nothing else. It wasn’t anything John had heard, so he shared it with Sherlock.</p>
<p>“It means nothing to me,” Sherlock said with a shrug after John had played it.</p>
<p>“Then why did I get it from Keith?”</p>
<p>“He’s unhinged. Nothing he does makes sense.”</p>
<p>“We don’t know that, Sherlock. We only know he disappeared, and that we’re the first to hear from him. Why this? Why now?”</p>
<p>Sherlock sighed. “Will you be happy if I research it?”</p>
<p>“Yes. Thank you.” John forwarded the email to Sherlock then stood to head up to his room.</p>
<p>“Where are you going?”</p>
<p>“I’ve got a date,” he replied.</p>
<p>“What? With whom? Hopefully not the new sergeant working under Lestrade. She’s in the closet.”</p>
<p>John rolled his eyes. “No, someone I met at the coffee shop last week.” It had been a bit unexpected. Their orders had got switched, and after they’d straightened it all out, they’d ended up chatting for half an hour. John wasn’t looking for anyone right now—Sherlock kept him busy enough—but he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. If nothing else, she’d be good for letting off a little steam.</p>
<p>“Coffee shop, really John? Little cliché, isn’t it? And why do you need to date anyway? It’s ridiculous.”</p>
<p>John crossed his arms. “Seriously? Just because you’re too good for dating doesn’t mean you need to mock the rest of us who want to give it a go. Some of us don’t want to die alone, you know.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew it was the wrong thing to say.</p>
<p>Sherlock’s face hardened. “Alone protects me.”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry, I didn’t–”</p>
<p>Sherlock stalked out of the room, and John heard his bedroom door slam. He sighed. He knew Sherlock was a bit touchy about being different, even though he pretended to revel in it. And John truly hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. His hackles always seemed to go up when he and Sherlock tried to talk about anything other than a case. They both got defensive far too easily. It didn’t bother John that Sherlock didn’t date. He seemed content with his work, and that was fine with John. But he just got annoyed when Sherlock made it seem like he was better than everyone else for it.</p>
<p>Well, there wasn’t much he could do now. He needed to get ready. He’d worry about fixing things with Sherlock later.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Simon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which they interview a mysterious young man with possible paranormal powers.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This week’s case comes from episode <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-106-the-devils-door.html">1.6</a> of TBT. </p><p>CW: mentions of patients at a psychiatric hospital, and Sherlock being a bit rude about said patients.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>So I’ve become accustomed to the creepiness of some of Sherlock’s cases—both scarlet and otherwise—over the last few months, but for the most part, said creepiness happens before I’m on the scene. My time is usually spent just watching Sherlock cut everyone in the room down. But for once, I got to watch an event unfold before my eyes, or, well, adjacent to them. It was … an experience to the say the least. Maybe it’s just the spookiness invoked by the person we were interviewing, but it feels like it could be real. That maybe the paranormal isn’t as made up as Sherlock would like it to be. I’m man enough to admit that, at the very least, it’s given me a few unsettling dreams.</p>
</blockquote><p>***</p><p>
  <strong> <em>173 Days</em> </strong>
</p><p>One spring day, John received a call from a psychiatric hospital in Sheffield. Calls and emails from fans or conspiracy theorists weren’t uncommon. People got excited reading his stories and wanted to have their fifteen minutes of fame. There were also the people who heard about Sherlock’s reward and wanted to have a go at stumping the arsehole genius. Seventy-five percent of the time, Sherlock scoffed, gave a twenty-word explanation to John, and refused to even talk with the person who had contacted them. But the other quarter (a seven or higher on the Sherlock Scale of Interesting Things) were worth leaving the flat for. That was the case with the latest voicemail.</p><p>The message was from a healthcare manager who worked at Nether Edge Hospital who had seen something he thought would be right up Sherlock’s street. John called the man, a Fred Barnes, back, then took the details to Sherlock.</p><p>“So about seven years ago, an eleven-year-old boy was placed in the hospital after supposedly murdering his parents. Simon Reese, you might have heard of him when the story first came out?” John sat in the chair across the table from Sherlock, dishing out a meal he would eat and Sherlock would pick at.</p><p>Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “I had … other things occupying my time then.”</p><p>“Oh right. Oh!” That would’ve been soon after Victor’s disappearance. “Yeah. Okay. Sorry.”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Get on with the story. You said <em>supposedly</em> murdered.”</p><p>“Right.” John took a bite of his curry, trying to decide which details would most intrigue his friend. “So yeah, the defense claimed there was no way he could have murdered them—no blood on his clothes, he was too young to be able to plan out a murder, he killed them both in their sleep, but his father—killed first—should have made enough noise to wake the mother before he died. The final ruling was criminal insanity, and he was placed in a psychiatric hospital.”</p><p>“What’s this have to do with the paranormal?” Sherlock asked, eyes narrowed and meal ignored.</p><p>“He was a selective mute before the murders, and a complete mute after, so they had a hard time getting his side of the story. But from what they gathered, he claims he was both in the room and <em>not</em> in the room when his parents were murdered.”</p><p>Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Teleportation?”</p><p>John shrugged. “I guess?”</p><p>“No wonder he’s in an insane asylum.”</p><p>“Sherlock, you can’t call it that.”</p><p>Sherlock waved a hand. “So I’m meant to prove he didn’t teleport?”</p><p>“Sort of. Just a few weeks ago, Simon seems to have attacked a fellow patient.”</p><p>“Ah, a new case of ‘teleportation’?” After a wave at his plate from John, Sherlock picked up his fork and took a bite, then dug in. He loved curry when he actually deigned to eat it.</p><p>John continued the story. “Yeah. And this time Simon <em>himself</em> claims to have attacked the patient—Trent.”</p><p>“By what means did he make that claim? I thought he didn’t speak.”</p><p>“Apparently he’s talking now. And he’s now confessed to his parents’ murders as well.” John shrugged. He was baffled by the whole thing and really hoped Sherlock could come up with a logical explanation.</p><p>“All of these years saying nothing, and now he randomly decides to confess and attack another person?”</p><p>“That’s not all.”</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes glittered with interest. “Go on.”</p><p>“One, both Simon’s and Trent’s rooms have surveillance cameras. Trent’s went offline just before he was attacked, but Simon’s showed him as being in his room the entire time.” John tried to tamp down the thrill he felt when talking about the case. It wasn’t exactly normal dinner conversation. He poured them both more wine.</p><p>“And yet Trent is claiming it was Simon who attacked him?” Sherlock prompted. His plate was half empty, proving that he too was not bothered by the not-normal dinner chat.</p><p>John nodded. “Yeah, he was napping and woke to hands around his neck and Simon standing over him, choking him. He was able to get the attention of the staff, but by the time they arrived, Trent was alone.”</p><p>“Trent made it up to get Simon in trouble.”</p><p>“Possibly. Except Trent had only been in hospital for a month, and the two had never met. What reason did Trent have for blaming Simon?”</p><p>“A need for attention.”</p><p>“And if it was the attack alone, I might agree with you.”</p><p>“Ah yes, the second thing.” Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his lips in his usual thinking pose but kept his eyes on John while he continued.</p><p>“Fred Barnes found drawings in Simon’s room.”</p><p>“Not your normal processing pain through art, I’m guessing?”</p><p>“No. The drawings were written on the walls, and they were more symbols than your usual art.” John retrieved a few pictures Fred had emailed him and slid them in front of Sherlock. They showed a white wall covered in black crayon or chalk—lots of numbers and symbols, the largest and most central a pentagram in a double circle.</p><p>Sherlock studied them for a few moments. “Why are there two pictures of the same– oh. No. <em>Not</em> the same wall. Let me guess. The second picture shows Trent’s wall.”</p><p>“Bingo.”</p><p>“So either Trent drew them to get Simon—someone he’s never met—in trouble, or …”</p><p>“Simon did it himself. He confessed to it, actually.”</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes darted from his study of the photos to John’s face. “Without provocation?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Hmmm.” Sherlock went back to studying the symbols as he absentmindedly ate another bite. “Ancient Sumerian?” he mumbled.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The symbols, most of them are Ancient Sumerian, with some mentions to the Tower of Marduk, the national god of Babylon. Odd. Perhaps he was looking for something foreign and that’s what popped up on his internet search.”</p><p>“They don’t get internet privileges in hospital.”</p><p>“Hmmm. A way of organizing his world, perhaps. An attempt to bring logic by numbers to a world that doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock muttered, his eyes darting back and forth across the pictures.</p><p>“Well, what do you think?”</p><p>“Hmm?”</p><p>“Should we go meet Simon and Trent?”</p><p>Sherlock stared at the photos a while longer. “Yes, I think we should.”</p><p>***</p><p>They arrived at Nether Edge Hospital by mid-afternoon, which apparently was enough time for Sherlock to “brush up” on his ancient Sumerian, numerology, and Babylonian myths and gods. This did not surprise John after several months of living with the genius.</p><p>Fred Barnes met them in the lobby and led them to the south wing, where Simon’s room sat. “He’s with his therapist now. I thought you might want to see his room before talking with him,” Barnes explained, pushing open the door.</p><p>It was pretty much what John expected from an in-patient room at a psychiatric facility—neat, with a few books piled tidily on the desk, but not much more in the way of personal effects. A little sterile, but not unexpected.</p><p>“The writing is gone,” Sherlock pointed out. “Your doing?” He stared accusingly at Fred.</p><p>“Uh yeah,” Fred began, twisting his hands together. “Well, the staff’s. We thought it would cause more problems if we left it—acting out, episodes, the like.”</p><p>“Idiots,” Sherlock murmured.</p><p>John nudged him none too softly in the side and shook his head. Sherlock rolled his eyes but kept further disparaging remarks to himself.</p><p>“Camera there,” he continued, pointing to the ceiling corner containing the security camera. “Simon’s stayed on the whole time? No interruptions in the feed, blips that could mean it was tampered with?”</p><p>“Right,” Fred nodded. “Only Trent’s went off, and it was only for about twenty seconds.”</p><p>Sherlock spent a few minutes with his magnifier down on his hands and knees, looking at every inch of the room, before sighing dramatically at the lack of evidence and asking to see Trent’s room.</p><p>The young man was in there when they arrived. His walls, too, had been scrubbed clean. Sherlock went over his room with the same fine-toothed comb, then turned to Trent when he was done.</p><p>“We’d like to ask you a few questions.”</p><p>A little spark of warmth always lit in John’s chest to hear the “we” Sherlock used when talking to someone during a case. John did very little on this end of things, but Sherlock always acted like it was a team effort.</p><p>“Um?” Trent scratched the back of his head and looked up a Fred.</p><p>The man nodded. “If you want to. But,” he continued, turning to Sherlock with a glare, “the moment he feels uncomfortable, you stop, got it?”</p><p>Sherlock huffed but nodded his head. John gave a discreet nod to Fred behind Sherlock’s back to indicate he’d make sure his colleague behaved.</p><p>“How did you know it was Simon who attacked you? You claimed to have never met him before.”</p><p>Trent frowned. “I hadn’t. Not before the attack. I’ve only been here a month, and we’re not in the same wing, so we don’t do any group activities together. I haven’t even seen him before. But …” He scrubbed his face. He looked troubled. “This girl came up to me one day and said, ‘Simon likes your drawings.’ But I <em>only</em> draw when I’m here, alone in my room, and I’ve <em>never</em> shown my drawings to anyone else. Not even my therapist. And …” he shuddered. “I’ve heard a young man’s voice say the same when I’m alone in my room. ‘I like your drawings.’”</p><p>Sherlock’s face scrunched up. “A couple of people have said that they like your drawings, and you connected that to Simon being your attacker?”</p><p>“He talked to me, Simon did, while he was choking me. He told me he didn’t like it when I prayed and that he had to stop me. It was the same voice that said, ‘I like your drawings.’ Not to mention,” he added with a glare at Sherlock, “all I had to do was describe what my attacker looked like. The staff were the ones who said it was Simon.”</p><p>Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his mouth. “’I like your drawings,’ but ‘I don’t like it when you pray.’ Let me guess, you only pray here in your room?”</p><p>Trent nodded. “I don’t even get down on my knees or talk out loud. Just in my head. But he said he could hear me and didn’t like it. He’s crazy. Scary and crazy.”</p><p>Sherlock raised an eyebrow but thankfully kept his thoughts (probably that <em>Trent</em> was the mad one) to himself. “May I see your drawings?”</p><p>Trent hesitated but then acquiesced. He pulled a notebook out of his desk. John stepped up to Sherlock’s side as he began flipping through the pages. They were the usual teenaged boy subjects—cars, robots, animals—for the first few pages. But then they hit a page covered with the same numbers and symbols from the walls.”</p><p>“Your work?” Sherlock asked.</p><p>“No! They just appeared one day.”</p><p>“Mmm.” Sherlock pulled out his phone and started taking pictures.</p><p>“Hey! You can’t do that!” Trent lunged for Sherlock but wasn’t quick enough.</p><p>John put out a calming hand. “Sorry, we should’ve asked first. Can we? Just the pages with the symbols. Not your private art.”</p><p>Trent grimaced. “Will it make Simon stop? <em>Can</em> you stop him? I don’t like it.” If the boy was lying, he was damned good at it. He looked genuinely frightened—eyes wide, fingers worrying cuticles.</p><p>“We’ll do our best, Trent.”</p><p>He nodded, and Sherlock continued snapping pictures. Sherlock asked a few more questions, then they went back to talk to Simon, who had finished his therapy session.</p><p>When they reached his room, a placid young man was sitting quietly on the bed, like he was waiting for something. He looked normal enough—no frantically darting eyes or evil smile. Still, something about him made John feel on edge. He attributed it to the stories Trent had told.</p><p>“Simon Reese,” Sherlock said, jumping right in.</p><p>Simon tilted his head. “Mr. Holmes. Mr. Watson. Thank you for joining me. You want to ask me about the drawings.”</p><p>John looked to Fred, who was wide-eyed. “I didn’t say who was coming to visit him.”</p><p>“And, of course, there’s <em>no way</em> he could know we talked to Trent about the drawings.” Sherlock’s voice was sarcastic. “I can do the same tricks. It’s called reading the room.”</p><p>John hid a smirk behind his hand. It was a trick when someone else did it, but pure intellect and observation when Sherlock did the same.</p><p>Simon shrugged nonchalantly. “Go on. Ask.”</p><p>“If you know what we’re going to ask, just tell us,” Sherlock demanded, obviously annoyed he wasn’t the only genius in the room. When the silence persisted, he sighed dramatically. “Tell us about Trent’s drawings.”</p><p>“Trent didn’t make them,” the boy replied drolly.</p><p>“You did? How?”</p><p>Simon shrugged again.</p><p>Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Ancient Sumerian. Not exactly common knowledge. Where did you learn it?”</p><p>“I need doorways. They are the best way to achieve that.”</p><p>“Doorways. For what purpose?”</p><p>Simon smirked. “What are doors usually used for, Mr. Holmes?”</p><p>Sherlock said nothing, staring hard at Simon.</p><p>“To get in a building, to move from room to room,” John offered when it was apparent Simon wouldn’t explain until someone answered.</p><p>“Very good.” Simon sounded a little like Sherlock there, and John didn’t like that.</p><p>“So?” Sherlock asked.</p><p>“Look closer, Mr. Holmes.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Those aren’t just numbers.” Simon taunted. The sound of someone moving quickly down the hall drew his attention to the door. “They’re coming to tell you about Trent.”</p><p>A nurse hurried into the room. She looked scared. “Dr. Barnes! It’s Trent. He– a seizure. His <em>walls</em>.”</p><p>Sherlock shared a look with John. They were both in the hallway and down the corridor before Fred could catch up. Trent was being wheeled out on a stretcher when they arrived, but Sherlock didn’t stop to study him, instead entering the room. Behind his door and above his bed were more of the strange numbers and symbols, but bigger. The pentagram took up most of the space behind his door. Sherlock was snapping pictures as quickly as his phone would allow, muttering while he did so.</p><p>“What do you think?” John asked when he was done.</p><p>“These symbols are very specific. Someone's knowledge of ancient Sumerian, and this type of script in particular, is fairly comprehensive. It's clear that whoever drew them has more than surficial knowledge of sacred geometry and ancient occultism.”</p><p>“Trent?”</p><p>“Mmmm.”</p><p>“Well who else could it have been? We went straight from Trent’s to Simon’s room and back again. It had to be Trent.” John wasn’t sure who he was trying to convince, Sherlock or himself. It was all so strange. Then again, most of what he’d encountered since moving in at Baker Street had been more than a little odd and unexplainable.</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock said slowly, as if he wasn’t sure he agreed. Then he nodded his head more confidently. “Mass hysteria, a well-known condition.”</p><p>“Like the Salem Witch Trials?” guessed John. “One person being ‘infected’ and passing it on to the next?” That earned him a small smile of approval. John felt his stomach flip but ignored it.</p><p>“Very good, John. Yes.” Sherlock started ticking things off with his fingers. “Simon is a very disturbed young man who basically grew up in this hospital and possibly killed his parents. Too much time on his hands, a need to bring order to his world, so he studies numerology and sacred geometry. He doesn’t like Trent, so he draws these symbols on the other boy’s wall. Trent becomes ‘infected’ and begins drawing the same things. The seizure is just a random happenstance, nothing to do with anything else.”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>Sherlock turned his full gaze on John. “You have doubts? It isn’t as if Simon can <em>actually</em> draw symbols that teleport him to another place so that he can kill people. It’s a case of two ill individuals in a feedback loop.”</p><p>“What about the security system?”</p><p>“Simon is very smart. He can easily hack the system.”</p><p>“The whispering?”</p><p>“Either Trent hearing things that aren’t there because of the shared psychosis or a cleverly placed recorder.”</p><p>John sighed. “Fine. Whatever. You have to admit the kid is creepy, though.”</p><p>Sherlock chuckled. “I won’t argue with you there.”</p><p>They spent a little longer talking with Fred and a few patients familiar with the two young men, then headed back to London. Without solving it, of course. Granted, they rarely solved their cases in an afternoon. If it was good enough to get Sherlock out of the house, it was good enough to challenge him for at least a few days, if not longer. Still, John was pretty sure this one would end up a scarlet file. Sherlock might be fine calling it mass hysteria and a troubled genius, but something about that bothered John.</p><p>There wasn’t much he could do for the moment though. Just keep investigating, as he always did.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Order of the Cenophus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which we learn about creepy incidents at a Bulgarian monastery, a demonic bible, and Sherlock's first investigation.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This week’s case comes from episodes <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-110-their-satanic-monasterys-request.html">1.10</a> and <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-111-the-codex-gigas.html">1.11</a>of TBT. </p><p>P.S. Glushka is pronounced Gloosh-kuh, Cenophus is Sen-uh-fuss, and Gigas is Gee-gus (both hard G sounds).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Okay, I’ll admit it. I suffer from a major case of apophenia (dear God, how I hate that word). You try living with a man who investigates the paranormal for a living, and you’ll start seeing patterns in everything too. I don’t know how Sherlock has lasted this long without going completely mad, or at the very least, paranoid. Can it really be as simple as, if you buy a shirt/car/watch, all of a sudden you see it everywhere? Maybe.</p>
</blockquote><p>***</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>156 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>A few weeks after the case of Simon and Trent, John received a video via anonymous email. It was a woman sitting at a table with several monks in grey robes—a séance, from the look of it. The woman asked questions, then wrote things on a piece of paper, looking as if she was being controlled rather than doing the writing of her own volition.</p><p>John couldn’t make much of it, so he shared it with Sherlock, who sighed when the video popped up. They were sat on the sofa, closer together than usual so they could view the screen together, and John felt the friction between Sherlock’s arm and his own when either moved.</p><p>“Marie Simone, of course.”</p><p>John paused the video. “Who?”</p><p>“World-famous clairvoyant, known for dealing with demons. A charlatan.”</p><p>“Well, she mentions an exorcism partway through the video, so she thinks she found one. And some odd stuff does happen.”</p><p>Sherlock tossed his head in that public school way of his but indicated that John should continue the video. After only a short time, he paused it again. “They’re Bulgarian, the monks? Why would they bring in a French woman?”</p><p>John shrugged. “You did say she was <em>world</em> famous.” He hit play again.</p><p>Marie started asking her questions. When she got to “Are you the fallen Brother Ivan?” Sherlock paused the video.</p><p>“<em>Glushka</em>? This is Glushka?”</p><p>“Whatka?”</p><p>“Do you have no idea what this video is about?” Sherlock asked with a glare.</p><p>John glared right back. “No. It was sent anonymously with no explanation. I watched it, didn’t understand why it was sent to me, so I showed you. Now, what’s Glushka?”</p><p>“A monastery in Bulgaria, run by the Order of the Cenophus. They were an order who broke away from the Benedictines in the sixteenth century. The Ivan that Marie refers to is a brother who jumped off one of the towers there in the sixteenth century. There’s a local nursery rhyme that mentions it: ‘Ivan thinks he can fly to God, but the Devil has him by the ankles. The pale robes still shake their heads.’ It refers to the idea that Ivan sold his soul to the devil.” Sherlock shook his head in annoyance. “I should have recognized this earlier. The monastery is known for being very secretive and isolated. The only time an outsider was let in was 1983. Marie Simone. There was also a related video going around in the nineties, I receive an email of it every year or so …” He stood and moved over to his computer to queue it up.</p><p>John followed him to the desk and stooped behind Sherlock’s seated figure to avoid the screen glare. The video showed an American couple on vacation. As the man was talking about their trip from in front of the camera, the woman filming said, ‘Oh my God!’ and zoomed into the tower. It happened so fast John almost missed it. “Back it up,” he demanded. He leaned in closer, using a hand to steady himself on Sherlock’s shoulder.</p><p>Sherlock started the video from just before the woman’s exclamation. The top of the tower was out of view, so John couldn’t see the start of it, but just before the camera zoomed in, he caught a dark figure falling from the tower. “That’s Glushka too?”</p><p>“What?” Sherlock startled a bit. “Oh, yes.” He sounded a little off, and John glanced at him to see his cheeks were tinged with pink. Odd. Was he that annoyed about the video?</p><p>“Let me guess, you disproved that anyone had jumped?”</p><p>The video continued with the couple arguing over whether someone had fallen, then the camera zoomed in on an empty field under where the figure had last been seen. “Shit,” he muttered, then, realizing how close he was to his flatmate, he stood upright and removed his hand from Sherlock’s shoulder.</p><p>“Um. Yes. I mean, no.” Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck. “I didn’t need to. Others had already done so. There is plenty of time for people on the ground to remove the dummy before the camera zooms in. Obvious.”</p><p>John smiled. “Ah, of course.” He cleared his throat. “So, Glushka. A mysterious place with mysterious falling figures and a mysterious event that caused the monks to call in an outsider.”</p><p>“Right. Yes.” They moved back in front of John’s laptop on the sofa. “Let’s continue?” said Sherlock.</p><p>John nodded. They leaned in and watched as Marie’s eyes went white—Sherlock huffing in annoyance—and she started writing on the blank paper as her assistant asked her questions. When the assistant asked for the spirit’s name, Marie hissed something, causing the monks to start conferring with each other before trying to dismiss Marie and her assistant.</p><p>“No, I need to exorcise it first. It’s dangerous.”</p><p>“No, leave us now,” one of the monks replied, ushering them from the room. The video ended.</p><p>John turned to Sherlock. “So why did I receive this?”</p><p>“Same reason you receive dozens of other videos. People want answers, or to win money or fame. Whatever it is, they want something.”</p><p>“But those people write their request or argument. This email was empty save for the video, and the email address was just a string of numbers. Even the subject line was empty. Doesn’t seem like they want more than to confuse or scare me.”</p><p>“Are you confused or scared, John?” Sherlock teased with a small smile.</p><p>“Berk,” John said, elbowing his friend. “But seriously, what reason would anyone have for sending me this?”</p><p>Sherlock shrugged. “They want you to look into Glushka or the Order, I reckon. Or Marie. Who knows.” He stood up. “Now, let’s go to the pub. I want shepherd’s pie.”</p><p>John looked at his laptop screen, video frozen, once more before nodding. “Yeah, I could use a beer.”</p><p>***</p><p>Not sure what he was looking for, he searched for a little bit of everything. Glushka didn’t yield much beyond what Sherlock had already told him, but the Order of the Cenophus gave better results. Sherlock put him in touch with a professor at Cambridge who knew some of the history, most of which, apparently, was apocryphal. Still, it was interesting.</p><p>Apparently, a monk called Herman did something bad enough that the rest of the monks in his monastery wanted to wall him up alive. He, a talented artist, talked them into giving him a year to create the most beautiful bible ever. Because a normal bible took around twenty years to make at that time, he supposedly made a deal with the devil to help him create it in a year. It ended up not being the actual bible, but rather just several books from the Latin bible and some historical texts, and it was called the Codex Gigas. Because of its great beauty, he was allowed to live. When the order was in financial trouble a few years later, the bible was sold, and Herman fell ill and died soon after.</p><p>An acolyte of Herman’s, Soběslav, created a new version of the codex while consumed with anger over Herman’s death and the selling of the bible. His new bible was different, however—evil, some said—and the Order was supposedly built on the foundations of that new codex, or <em>The Cenophus</em>, as he named the tome.</p><p>It was an interesting story, but the Cambridge professor refused to say what was fact and what was myth. No one knew what was true, and today’s version of the order wasn’t talking. They could be worshiping Satan or quietly living their lives and growing herb gardens.</p><p>Yet another dead end. John seemed to hit a lot of those these days, and he was surprised Sherlock had as few scarlet files as he did. The whole flat should be bursting with them.</p><p>“I know what to look for, John,” Sherlock explained when John shared his frustration with him one morning over breakfast. “Don’t forget that not only have I been doing this for years, but I have three degrees. I was just as lost as you when I started out.”</p><p>John snorted. “At what, age five?”</p><p>“Four. Father Christmas, remember?”</p><p>That brought a smile to his face, thinking again about a tiny Sherlock doing his pint-sized investigations on mysterious phenomena. “What else did you investigate when you were little?”</p><p>Sherlock shrugged and looked away. “Oh, the usual things that kids get curious about, most of which had utterly mundane answers, much to my disappointment.”</p><p>“And now you’re the one bursting the bubble for everyone else.”</p><p>“We’re adults now, John. There is no mystery. And it’s time everyone else realized that.” Sherlock sipped his tea.</p><p>John knew Sherlock was brilliant, and his answers always made so much sense, but John still wondered if there was some actual mystery out in the world still—phenomena that had no answers apart from magic or demons or whatever. He was a pretty sensible guy for the most part, but the kid in him wanted some things to remain unexplained. But he didn’t really fault Sherlock for wanting to find out the truth. It’s what made Sherlock who he was—his undying curiosity, his interest in the weird, even his acerbic personality. John appreciated it all. He had been really lucky to be led to him.</p><p>He checked his email while he finished his toast. He scrolled through most—requests or fan mail probably; he’d look later—but stopped when he came across a familiar name. “Keith Dabic.”</p><p>“Hmm?” Sherlock was elbow-deep in the advice columns he found so deeply amusing. His toast was clamped between his teeth, forgotten. John smiled.</p><p>“Keith Dabic, Hastur Rising, remember? He emailed me again. An actual email this time, not just a random sound file.”</p><p>“Moaning about his impending doom, I reckon.”</p><p>“Uh, no …” John scanned the email. “He says he’s in Russia. He’s tracked down a composer who claims to be able to neutralize the Unsound. Percival Black, you heard of him?”</p><p>Sherlock frowned in thought, then shook his head. John lifted his mug to take a sip of tea, then realized it was empty. He decided to get more later and kept reading instead.</p><p>“He’s attached some scans of what looks like music composition? He also says to look into an Alexander Scriabin.” He looked up to see Sherlock refilling his tea cup. “Oh. Thanks.”</p><p>Sherlock nodded. “Scriabin I’ve heard of.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Twentieth-century pianist and composer. Russian. Died young. His music isn’t terrible. He was banned from BBC radio because the director thought his compositions were evil.” Sherlock looked like he hoped to someday be banned from the BBC. Knowing him, it wasn’t a surprise or an impossibility.</p><p>“What, like minor key stuff?”</p><p>“More atonal than minor. Dissonant. He also gave his works names like ‘The Satanic Poem’ and ‘Black Mass.’”</p><p>“Hmm. Dark. So he was interested in the occult?”</p><p>Sherlock shrugged. “I know more about his music than his life. But ‘The Satanic Poem’ was about a Faustian bargain, not the occult.”</p><p>John perked up. “Oh? Like that monk at Glushka?”</p><p>“It’s a common enough theme in music and literature, John,” Sherlock replied with a longsuffering, pained face.</p><p>“Still, you have to admit it’s a little too coincidental that we’ve heard about Glushka and a Russian composer who wrote about Faustian bargains within a week of each other.”</p><p>“You can make anything look connected if you try hard enough. Apophenia.”</p><p>John sighed. “If you say so.”</p><p>Sherlock’s argument wasn’t going to stop him from researching further into Scriabin or Percival Black. Looked like a long day of research ahead of him.</p><p>***</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>But I can’t help but see connections in so much of what I’m learning these days. All of these cases, the emails you all send me, it seems like I hear about something new to me, and then within a few weeks I’ve heard about it three more times. Sherlock says I’m reading too much into it. That of course paranormal cases have similar threads running through them—that’s because they’re still unexplained phenomena.</p>
  <p>But this is different. For instance, I recently learned about a monk who supposedly made a deal with the devil to help him create an illuminated bible, then a week later I’m learning about a composer who wrote music about Faustian bargains. Okay, that seems a little thin now that I write it. Faustian bargains are a popular theme in music and literature—yes, Sherlock, I listened to you—but that’s just one example. This has been happening constantly since I started researching the paranormal.</p>
  <p>Perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps it’s apophenia after all. But I’m going to keep researching. I think I’ll find something eventually. Some way to tie things together. No, I’m not smarter than Sherlock Holmes. But I do see things differently than he does. He’s said before that my way of thinking helps him see things he didn’t see before. Perhaps I can do that again. We’ll see.</p>
  <p>Sorry for rambling. Things have just been a little weird lately. I promise a better post next week. I’ve got quite a story to tell. Until then, I remain your intrepid journalist—or blogger, or whatever I am now—John Watson.</p>
</blockquote>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Cabin in the Woods</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which a child is kidnapped and then found and Sherlock and John find more sacred geometry.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This week’s case comes from episode <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-107-cabin-fever.html">1.07</a></p>
<p>CW: kidnapping (very vague, and the child is found quickly)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>We’ve moved beyond creepy now. It’s no longer teenagers writing things on their walls and claiming to teleport. It’s not a mysterious order of monks who refuse to talk about their beliefs. Now, the shit is real, and it’s scary. This isn’t the first kidnapping Sherlock has investigated, but it’s the first where we knew the child beforehand, and the first Sherlock couldn’t figure out. Don’t worry, the child is safe, but we still don’t know who took him or why.</p>
</blockquote><p>***</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>126 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>John woke abruptly when something dropped on his legs. He squinted at his phone. “Four-forty, really, Sherlock? What the <em>fuck</em> could be that important?”</p>
<p>In the gloom of the street lights peeking in through the curtains, John saw his flatmate dropping clothes into the duffle currently residing on top of John’s legs on the bed. “Sammy Torres has gone missing.”</p>
<p>“Sam– Holy shit. When?”</p>
<p>“Robert called me twenty minutes ago. He went missing after school yesterday afternoon. Went into the toilet at three forty-seven and never came out. One small, high window was the only egress apart from the door to the hallway, where a teacher waited for him.”</p>
<p>John had clambered out of bed during the explanation and began dressing, after which he took out several shirts he never wore that Sherlock had added to his bag, instead dropping in his favorite jumper and a few more comfortable shirts. Sherlock glared but allowed it, stepping back to let John finish packing himself.</p>
<p>“So we’re going to California?”</p>
<p>Sherlock nodded, leaning against the wall to watch John. “Maria’s not happy, but Robert is insisting. The detective on the case is apparently an idiot.”</p>
<p>“I’m surprised he wanted you. You may be a genius, but Robert didn’t seem too happy with the results of your previous investigations for him.”</p>
<p>“He knows my record with the police is ninety-five percent solved. He knows I can find Sammy.” And it was true. The man could have easily been a detective, and John wondered yet again how Sherlock had ended up here instead.</p>
<p>“Any ideas?” John asked, closing up the bag and nodding toward the stairs. Sherlock led them down.</p>
<p>“Seven, but I don’t like to theorize ahead of the data, so I’ll wait to explain once we know more.”</p>
<p>“Hmm.” It was a common claim of Sherlock’s, so John didn’t contest it. He’d explain when he was ready. “When do we leave?”</p>
<p>“Now,” Sherlock replied, grabbing his already packed case from the sitting room.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Far too many hours later, they’d arrived in California, dropped their things at their hotel, and gone to the Los Gatos police station. Sherlock talked with the head detective as well as Sammy’s parents. There wasn’t much more to learn about his actual disappearance, but photos of the boys’ loo, the hallway, the cloakroom he’d been in before he was taken all proved there was no way the boy could have left apart from the hallway where a teacher waited for him.</p>
<p>School security cameras did show an unknown vehicle in the pick-up area around the same time Sammy disappeared, and through some queries, they found the vehicle parked at Portola Redwood State Park. Sherlock asked for maps of the park, studied them for less than an hour, and zeroed in his focus to one cabin and a cave. They sent out two police teams, with Sherlock and John accompanying (with reluctant acceptance by the lead detective) the one that went to the cabin, which was the more likely spot in Sherlock’s mind.</p>
<p>His hypothesis proved correct. They found Sammy sitting alone in the previously abandoned cabin with no memory of anything that had occurred between his abduction and being found. He was confused and scared, but healthy and whole.</p>
<p>It only took about two minutes on site for Sherlock to be distracted. John looked up from listening to Sammy’s few memories to see his friend staring at the wall across the one-room building. The cabin was run down, had shuttered windows, and only contained a couple of chairs, a camp bed that looked newly purchased, and a box of tinned food. And the old wooden walls were covered—top to bottom, three hundred-sixty degrees—with charcoal drawings and symbols. They looked child-like, but the full coverage meant Sammy couldn’t have drawn them. Actually, they made John think of a combination of cave paintings and the things drawn on Simon’s and Trent’s walls at Nether Edge.</p>
<p>Sherlock was flitting from wall to wall, pointing and muttering, snapping pictures as fast as he could. John joined him.</p>
<p>“Sacred geometry?”</p>
<p>“Mhmm,” Sherlock confirmed distractedly.</p>
<p>“Same symbols as Simon’s?”</p>
<p>“Some of them. Others are new.”</p>
<p>“Oh?”</p>
<p>“This one,” Sherlock pointed to what looked like a circle with numbers. “The numbers with the face inside? It’s demonic. An elemental, called Asog, Aka Manah, Grigori.”</p>
<p>“Oh!” John said again, but this time in surprise. He’d taken it for a black stain at first, but just like he’d done when seeing Sammy’s bedroom cupboard months before, it morphed into a stretched face the longer he looked at it.</p>
<p>“Hmmm,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes.</p>
<p>“So we’ve got the face from Sammy’s room, the numbers from Simon’s room, pentagrams from both, and some new symbols and numbers. They <em>have</em> to be related. You can’t deny it, Sherlock.”</p>
<p>Sherlock frowned. “John.”</p>
<p>“Three events with the same symbology. There is no way this is a coincidence.” John frowned back. That earned him a sigh, but no reply. He watched Sherlock continue studying the walls.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Sherlock said softly.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>The sun had come out from behind the clouds, and a small but bright stream of light filtered through one of the window shutter cracks. The light sat perfectly in the center of a ring of drawn symbols, and it was in the shape of a cross.</p>
<p>“Shit,” John muttered. “Purposeful?”</p>
<p>“Perhaps.” He moved over to the wall next to it. “This is definitely purposeful.” He pointed at a line of numbers at the top of the wall. “The Golden Ratio.”</p>
<p>“Like, actual math?”</p>
<p>“It was studied by the likes of Pythagoras and Kepler, yes, but it’s also thought to have occult properties. Satan wanting to usurp the perfect math that God created, bringing chaos to order, et cetera.” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “But these equations accompanying the Golden Ratio were used in medieval churches to create a devil’s door to allow evil spirits to escape during baptisms. But those were always on north walls, <em>this</em> is the south wall.” He frowned at the equations.</p>
<p>“So opposite wall … means an opposite purpose? Keep the spirits in?” John concluded.</p>
<p>Sherlock turned away from the wall and smiled softly at John. “You’re picking this up rather well. Not quite the idiot most people are.”</p>
<p>High praise coming from the acerbic genius. John smiled back. “I held my own back in school. I was really good with biology—thought about medical school for a while—but I liked those maths word problems too.”</p>
<p>“Hmmm. A doctor.” Sherlock tilted his head. “I can see that. Though I wouldn’t have my blogger if you’d gone that direction.”</p>
<p>John shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe you’d have inspired me to write even as a doctor.” He shook his head and went back to studying the walls. “So. Thoughts?”</p>
<p>“Still thinking them.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. The Kids Are All Right</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which spooky things happen around kids.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This week’s investigation comes from episode <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-111-the-codex-gigas.html">1.11</a>.</p>
<p>Okay, I lied in The Tall Man chapter. This chapter is fairly creepy too. Blame TBT, not me! CW for gore and mention of what appears to be a suicide.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Why is it always kids these days? Simon, Sammy, and now Katie and Kurt. Kids should be safe at home, not being terrified and used by others. Shit.</p>
</blockquote><p>***</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>112 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>After the kidnapping, the stories about kids and weird happenings multiplied. They received an email from another woman, Phoebe Yi, whose child was the focus of some strange circumstances. Like with Robert and Sammy, seven-year-old Katie Yi’s mother was seeing a mysterious shadow out of the corner of her eye when her daughter was near. Once there was even a thump followed by a broken living room window. Still, John only brought Sherlock on when, after some strange noises coming from Katie’s room, Phoebe found numbers and symbols carved onto her daughter’s bed frame, which had moved several feet across the room even though it was almost too heavy for Phoebe herself to move.</p>
<p>Sherlock dismissed it after only a few minutes of explanation. He complained that his new popularity from John’s blog was causing people to make up circumstances that matched stories John had already told. It had caused a row that ended in a three-day silence between the two of them.</p>
<p>That silence was finally broken when John received an email from a Wendy Hochman in Germany. She’d said that she’d contacted Sherlock almost a year ago, and he’d dismissed her story without even a call or visit. A check through Sherlock’s email folder showed she had indeed emailed Sherlock and he had replied with his usual workplace charm—that is to say, none. It turned out she had recently begun reading John’s blog after a friend noticed similarities between Sammy’s circumstances and those of her toddler son, Kurt. She was asking John to look into her case.</p>
<p>This time, John had proof—seen by Sherlock almost a year ago—that Wendy wasn’t making things up based on Sammy’s case. Via emails with Wendy, John learned that like both Sammy and Katie, shadows had been seen near Kurt almost since his birth. And the same double circle and pentagram symbol had been found carved under his cot.</p>
<p>Though Sherlock was finally convinced it was worth looking into, he wasn’t ready to put his own time into what could be another dead end, so he sent John out to do the legwork. He interviewed Wendy in Germany, learned that along with the shadows and symbol, she often heard weird noises, like a wailing cat, outside their flat. As none of their neighbors had cats and they were on the tenth floor, the sound was a mystery. She emailed the baby monitor recordings to John, who sent it off to a sound guy he knew. While he waited on answers, he called the Hochmans’ English housekeeper, Maddie, who turned out to not be a lot of help. She hadn’t heard any noises or seen anything strange, and the Hochmans seemed like a perfectly normal family.</p>
<p>John’s sound guy finally got back to him, saying the wailing was definitely organic, but also most likely not a cat, or any other animal he knew of. But it was a singing or calling of some sort, similar to that of a cat.</p>
<p>But more than that, what had appeared to be a sound file of only a few minutes turned out to be a recording of more than three hours. After forty minutes of silence, the monitor had picked up some whispers, unintelligible, but they definitely sounded like human chanting. John heard Kurt cooing from his cot, then more whispers. There was a further half hour of silence, then the whispers returned, louder than before. The words became clear.</p>
<p>“Shhh. Don't let Mummy hear you. You are going to love your new life, my boy.” More chanting followed, in a language John didn’t recognize, though he did recognize the voice—Maddie the housekeeper. She ended her chanting with more English. “Goodbye, little one. Serve him well.”</p>
<p>John paused the recording. “Well shit.”</p>
<p>Sherlock scoffed when John showed him the sound file, saying that after Maddie had learned why John was asking after the Hochmans, she’d made the recording. John argued that the recording was from before John had interviewed Maddie, after which Sherlock said that “obviously,” Maddie was just a trouble-maker and she’d been the creator of all of the weirdness that had Wendy freaked out.</p>
<p>John didn’t agree, but nothing he said would change Sherlock’s mind. It was one thing to be able to debunk obviously fake reports of the paranormal, but this was someone grasping at straws to avoid what was plain to see: something strange was going on with the Hochmans, and real-world reasons wouldn’t be able to solve it. He left it alone for a while, focusing back on his investigations.</p>
<p>He tried calling Wendy back to let her know what he’d found so far but couldn’t get a hold of her. After a few days with no returned calls or emails, he tried calling again with no success. Tracking through social media (thanks to Sherlock) finally put him in touch with her sister, who said the Hochmans had been missing for several days, with police finding no clues to their whereabouts. With no way of getting in touch with Maddie, John called up an old colleague who lived in Cologne, not far from the Hochmans, and asked him to go knock on Maddie’s door to see if he could find anything.</p>
<p>John and Sherlock were eating lunch when John got a video call.</p>
<p>“Hey, Wolfgang. What did you find?”</p>
<p>Sherlock cocked an eyebrow but kept silent.</p>
<p>John’s mate shrugged. “No answers to knocking, but the door is unlocked. I’m about to call the police, but figured I’d let you know before I got caught up in paperwork.”</p>
<p>Sherlock leaned over to see John’s phone screen. “Open the door then.”</p>
<p>“What?” Wolfgang asked with a frown. “That’s illegal. I can’t–”</p>
<p>Sherlock interrupted. “Several people are missing, and Maddie’s flat might give us clues.”</p>
<p>Of course he was keeping apprised of John’s research. Lazy arse just didn’t want to do the boring bits. John rolled his eyes but joined in the pleading.</p>
<p>“Come on. Please? You owe me from Baghdad.”</p>
<p>Wolfgang sighed and glared half-heartedly. “If I get in trouble, I’m blaming you.”</p>
<p>John laughed.</p>
<p>Wolfgang turned his phone to face the door, which he pushed open. It was dark inside apart from what light came through a window. The place looked worse than their flat before John had moved in. Furniture was overturned, and paper littered the room.</p>
<p>“Oh god,” Wolfgang murmured. He turned the camera to a wall painted black. But then he turned on the light.</p>
<p>“Shit,” said John.</p>
<p>The wall wasn’t black, it was painted in <em>blood</em>. What John had taken for an electrical buzzing was the sound of hundreds of flies covering the wall. He felt his skin crawl. Then the camera swung around to a dining area. The table had been shoved out of the way, and hanging from the ceiling by what looked like the remains of a ceiling light fixture was a woman. John made an educated guess as to who it was.</p>
<p>“Maddie,” he breathed.</p>
<p>“Finally, it gets interesting,” Sherlock murmured.</p>
<p>John looked over at his friend, eyes wide is disbelief. “Sherlock, a woman is <em>dead</em> and a family is missing. This isn’t <em>interesting</em>. It’s <em>terrible</em>.”</p>
<p>Sherlock hesitated a moment. “Yes, well–”</p>
<p>“Yes, well nothing.” John tried to say more, but words failed him. “Fuck, I can’t right now.” He turned his eyes back on his phone screen. “You can call the police now, Wolfgang. I am so sorry for getting you involved in this. Truly.”</p>
<p>Wolfgang nodded. “You couldn’t have known.” He paused. “Right?”</p>
<p>“No, of course not. This was just an investigation into strange noises in a child’s room. Nothing—supposedly—sinister.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “I guess I was wrong about that.”</p>
<p>“We both were,” Sherlock added quietly.</p>
<p>John glanced over at him. The euphoric interest that had been on his face was gone. He looked thoroughly chastised now. John hoped it was a true feeling and not an act to sway him.</p>
<p>The silence of the cab ride home was finally broken by Sherlock’s intake of breath that always proceeded a lengthy explanation. “John, I … that is, I didn’t mean– I don’t take joy from other people’s pain and death. I just … I’m not … I’m. Sorry.” He finally moved his gaze from the window to John. “I’m glad I have you around. To remind me.”</p>
<p>John relaxed at the words. He was beginning to be able to tell when Sherlock was truthful with his words and emotions and when he was playing someone. He seemed genuine this time. And it wasn’t as if John was unable to relate.</p>
<p>“And I’m sorry, for being so harsh. I do understand the sentiment after all. God, the times I saw my story subjects as some staged play rather than real people.” He shook his head, looked out the window, and rubbed a finger over his lips. “Some days I think that bullet was a blessing in disguise. I’d forgotten why I went into war correspondence in the first place. More than anything, I wanted to help, but somewhere along the way, I lost that. But now, thanks to you, I feel useful again. I feel like I’m doing good. Well, moments like this afternoon aside.” He turned to face Sherlock again now that the emotional stuff was done. “What do you think happened? That was not a woman committing suicide. I mean, the mess, the, the <em>blood</em>. Sherlock, what was that?”</p>
<p>Sherlock ran his hands over his face and closed his eyes. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. She was supposed to be a lone wolf, someone trying to spook a family for some strange reason, but one that was her own. But this? This proves she didn’t work alone. Which means something more sinister is going on. But <em>what</em>?”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“Huh. The blood isn’t Maddie’s.”</p>
<p>At John’s words, Sherlock looked up from the book he was reading. It was a few days after Wolfgang had found the housekeeper hanging from her ceiling, and they were relaxing in their respective chairs.</p>
<p>“Oh?” He narrowed his eyes. “Anything else?”</p>
<p>John continued to scan the email he’d received from the Cologne police. He wasn’t sure how Sherlock had managed to wheedle them into sharing their findings with him, but John wasn’t going to complain. “Yeah, it’s just initial testing, but it doesn’t seem to match the blood from her body. And– Oh.”</p>
<p>“What oh?” Sherlock stood and walked behind John’s chair to read over his shoulder. He bent over enough that John felt breath on the back of his neck. He closed his eyes, suppressed a shudder, and gulped.</p>
<p>He had originally found his flatmate’s lack of acknowledgement of personal space to be charming, something that showed his innocence when it came to interpersonal connections, but lately he’d been more affected by it than just being charmed. It was getting harder (no pun intended) to ignore his attraction to Sherlock. Which was bad, seeing as the man didn’t seem to be attracted to anything apart from weird experiments, dry monographs on obscure myths, and false claims of the paranormal. John had tried the dating thing for a while in an attempt to get over his little crush, but after the sixth time Sherlock had ruined a date, John had given up on ever having a love life.</p>
<p>With a deep breath, John opened his eyes and focused back on his laptop.</p>
<p>“More symbols,” he explained simply. He scrolled down to the photos attached to the email. The first showed the bloody wall again, but the ones after that were of the wall wiped clean. Well, not clean, but free of the blood. In what must be permanent marker, the wall was marked up with the same numbers and symbols he was getting very tired of seeing. Different configurations than from their previous cases, but lots of numbers and glyphs.</p>
<p>Sherlock leaned over John’s shoulder to take control of the computer and zoom in on the first photo. John concentrated on the idea of a blood-soaked and scary symbol-covered wall to keep his traitorous body from reacting.</p>
<p>“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed into John’s ear.</p>
<p>“Why don’t you just take over,” he growled, more harshly than he’d intended. He stood and turned to hand his computer to Sherlock, who looked at him in confusion.</p>
<p>“John?”</p>
<p>“Just … you know what you need to focus on. None of this means anything to me. Tell me what you find out.”</p>
<p>Not letting himself look back at Sherlock, John made a beeline for the stairs and the open street that lay beyond the front door. He wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The next few days proved uneventful, with no news on Maddie or the Hochmans, and no further emails or calls about freaky happenings around children. It gave John time to concentrate on the Unsound, which he was still researching while he waited for Keith Dabic to get in touch.</p>
<p>His current research was on Percival Black, the composer who was possibly doing some work on a “cure” for the Unsound. It turned out he was a fellow Englishman who had moved to a Russian monastery in the nineties to work on his musical compositions. John’s calls and emails weren’t having any returns, but he’d managed to get in touch with Black’s flatmate from uni. The man described Black as the usual creative type: kept to himself, worked late into the night, but friendly enough.</p>
<p>Their two years living together were normal until a few weeks before the end, when Black started leaving the flat after midnight. Being outside the usual routine, his flatmate finally followed him one night when he happened to come home just as Black was leaving. Black walked through a bit of woods and into a field, where his flatmate had lost him. The next morning, there was a note from Black saying he was leaving and would send people to collect his things later. The flatmate never saw him again.</p>
<p>John would’ve written the excursion off as meditation by a composer trying to write—he’d seen Sherlock do some pretty odd things when composing after all—except that the flatmate mentioned the field was a local gathering place for witches. The man put John in touch with a professor at the University of Bath, where Black had attended.</p>
<p>He didn’t expect anything to come of the call, except for two things: one, the professor mentioned there had never been a music program at Bath, meaning Black hadn’t gone there or at least not for a music degree; and two, the pictures she sent of some cave paintings near the field where Black had been during his midnight excursion.</p>
<p>At first the paintings looked like a ritual or battle of some sort. There were black stick figures surrounding one figure that was taller than the rest. It took a couple of pictures for John to see it. The main figure’s face was upside down, just like the face symbol on Simon and Trent’s walls, just like the one at the cabin Sammy was found in.</p>
<p>“Bloody mother fucking hell,” he muttered, rubbing his face.</p>
<p>Sherlock, who had just come into the kitchen from his bedroom, where he’d been spending most of his time lately, grunted but didn’t enquire as to the reason for John’s expletive.</p>
<p>“Sherlock, can you look at these pictures for me? I’m not sure what’s going on.”</p>
<p>His flatmate sighed but came to stand behind John. He was silent for a while, then hummed. “I would say a ritual of some sort, but the rows of figures at this end are lined up in a militaristic manner, so perhaps a battle? Where are the pictures from?”</p>
<p>“Bath. Some cave paintings near a field known for pagan and occult meetings.”</p>
<p>“Hmm, then yes, I’d say a ritual. What’s this for?”</p>
<p>John pinched the bridge of his nose. Was Sherlock being purposefully obtuse? “Look at the main figure, the taller one.”</p>
<p>Sherlock squinted and shrugged. “The leader. Sized larger to show his higher status.”</p>
<p>“Look at his face.”</p>
<p>“What abou–” Sherlock stopped himself in realization, then looked at John in frustration. “Oh. John, it’s just a stylistic preference. Perhaps he was wearing a mask.”</p>
<p>“Then why is it upside down?”</p>
<p>“It’s a common theme amo–”</p>
<p>“Sherlock, it’s the same face. Exact same as Simon’s, Trent’s, and Sammy’s wall drawings. You <em>have</em> to see that. And it’s not a coincidence. It keeps popping up. It means something.”</p>
<p>“You said the area was known for occult practices. It would make sense that the face we’ve seen before is a popular one around the world. There’s no connection!”</p>
<p>Before John could argue further, Sherlock whirled around, grabbed a file from his desk, and marched back to his room, slamming his door shut.</p>
<p>John leaned back and closed his eyes. Sherlock had been off lately. Distracted, muttering odd things under his breath, spending all his time in his room. John should be happy he’d come out long enough to have an argument, not to mention the fact that he’d argued at all. The few times he’d left his room the past few days, he’d barely said anything, a few grunts at most. He’d looked sleep deprived, and twice John had found him staring into space. John wasn’t sleeping well either, and he wondered if Sherlock’s mood was affecting him.</p>
<p>Usually Sherlock’s behavior would not be too abnormal, except for him hiding in his room. What was going on in there? Unable to figure it out, John concentrated on his current research. There was a connection between the paintings and the other cases they’d had recently. He just knew it. Now he had to prove it to Sherlock.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Eurus</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which John finds out what Sherlock has been doing in his room and about a third Holmes sibling.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Eurus is just a normal kid in this universe. Well, mostly. You’ll see. But she’s not a psychopath or evil. I just needed a younger sibling for Sherlock, and she was available for the job. She promises to behave. ;)</p><p>This week’s scarlet file comes from episodes <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-205-cheryl.html">2.05</a> and <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-206-all-in-the-family.html">2.06</a>.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p>I know I’ve said it before, but now I know it’s one hundred percent true. It’s more than my sleep deprivation. It’s more than just coincidence. The universe cannot be that fucking lazy. Sherlock. He’s like the others. He’s one of the kids.</p>
</blockquote><p>***</p><p>
  <strong> <em>68 Days</em> </strong>
</p><p>
  <em>Ask about Eurus. – Anonymous</em>
</p><p>John was getting tired of these anonymous messages asking him to look into Sherlock’s past. It was always an internal struggle between his insatiable curiosity and his journalistic integrity. Sherlock was allowed to have a past he kept to himself. It wasn’t like John told him everything that had ever happened to him, so why should his friend be held to a different standard? But ever since Maddie’s murder, John knew the playing field had changed, and he needed to do his part to try to figure things out. But what was right these days? Keeping a past hidden and thus possibly missing an entire thread that could blow everything wide open and save lives, or revealing personal details on the internet to ask for help and thus possibly putting new people in danger. It was a no-win situation.</p><p>His and Sherlock’s continued sleeplessness didn’t help. They were both irritable and short tempered, and John was having trouble thinking clearly. Every time he closed his eyes, specters and eerie symbols chased after him, causing death and chaos. He wondered briefly what was keeping Sherlock awake, but was too tired to even ask.</p><p>The case of Sherlock’s mysterious room happenings plus the anonymous text about Eurus came to head when John brought Sherlock some food, in attempt to both force-feed him and do a little recon. Knocking hadn’t worked over the last few days, so he just took a page from Sherlock’s book and barged in.</p><p>Demands died in his throat when his eyes landed on the walls, two of which were completely covered with paper and string. It was just like every conspiracy wall he’d seen in films and on television.</p><p>“Sherlock?” he asked, setting the plate on the bedside table so he could examine the nearest covered wall.</p><p>Sherlock whirled around from his spot in front of the wall across the room, also covered with paper and string, clearly having been far enough in his own mind to not hear John enter, but aware enough to acknowledge a voice.</p><p>“John, what are you doing in here?”</p><p>“Trying to feed you,” John replied dryly, waving a hand to the food. “What is all this?”</p><p>He was looking at a map of South England, and he realized the route drawn in red marker was familiar to him. “Victor?”</p><p>“John.” Sherlock’s voice was soft as he approached John. “Please. Leave. I need– I can’t–” He shook his head in what looked like defeat.</p><p>“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John led him to the bed and sat beside him, handing him the sandwich he’d made.</p><p>Sherlock took it but only looked at it perplexed. “I … received a message, after you mentioned Victor in your blog.”</p><p>“What kind of message? A threat? A tip?”</p><p>Sherlock shook his head. “Something … something I thought was a fake at first—just someone trying to rile me up—but it contained things only Victor and I would understand. References to books and places we only talked about in private. What if … what if he’s still alive, John?” His voice was small, confused, worried.</p><p>Pushing at Sherlock’s elbow to get him to take a bite of his sandwich, John shoved aside the sleep deprivation to think about it. Everything they’d encountered so far seemed connected, even though Sherlock refused to believe it. Was this him taking his first step to admitting the connections did exist? And what <em>did</em> Victor have to do with any of it? He had disappeared before Sherlock had even really dived into the paranormal, before all the weirdness started. Or was his disappearance the beginning?</p><p>“If he’s alive, you’ll find him,” he finally said.</p><p>“But he said not to.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“His message, it boils down to ‘I’m alive, don’t look for me.’”</p><p>John snorted, pointing at the covered wall in front of them. “Looks like you followed his advice real good.”</p><p>The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. Beyond his outburst earlier that day, it was the first emotion John had seen from him in nearly a week. “If it really was Victor, he had to know that asking me to not look means I will instead turn over every stone trying to find him. If it’s really Victor, that means he actually wants me to find him but can’t say so.”</p><p>“Do you think his disappearance is connected?”</p><p>“To your web of conspiracy?” Sherlock asked drily as he took a bite of his sandwich.</p><p>“I can’t see a connection either, but why is all of this coming up now? Was Victor the beginning, where all of this strangeness started?”</p><p>Sherlock turned to John wide-eyed. “You think Victor’s disappearance led to my going into paranormal investigation and then being given these very specific, seemingly disparate cases over the last few years that you’re convinced are actually connected?”</p><p>“Yes! No. I don’t know.” John sighed. “I know it sounds mad, but it just seems like everything is converging right now.”</p><p>“Or you came along, started digging into old cases, and found connections where they don’t exist. And now your blog is bringing more of the crazies out of the woodwork.”</p><p>“So you’re one hundred percent certain Victor isn’t the beginning?”</p><p>“Yes, John.”</p><p>John raised an eyebrow. “What about Eurus?”</p><p>Sherlock froze. “Where did you hear that?”</p><p>“Anonymous text this morning.”</p><p>“What did it say?”</p><p>“Just said to ask about it … or them. I took the liberty of checking your scarlet files. There’s one labeled Eurus. I didn’t read it or watch the DVD. I’m giving you a chance to tell me first. But I <em>will</em> investigate eventually. I need to know if it’s connected too.”</p><p>Sherlock sagged. “It … might be.”</p><p>“What?” John felt his eyes go wide. Sherlock was actually admitting something was connected. “How? What is it?”</p><p>“Easier to show you, I think.” Sherlock twisted around to grab his laptop from the other side of the bed. Queuing up a video, he slid the computer onto John’s lap.</p><p>John took a moment to study his friend’s face, then turned to the screen. An old home video began to play. Like many others he’d seen from the scarlet files, it looked like it had been transferred from VHS or something older. The view was of a young girl, maybe five or six. Her hair was in two bunches, and she wore a dress and cardigan that looked like they were from the seventies or eighties. She looked at the person recording the video, then gazed through a set of doors in a glass porch she stood in, out into the night.</p><p>What sounded like a boy’s voice came from behind the camera. “Who can you see?”</p><p>She continued to stare out the glass. “The men.”</p><p>“What men?”</p><p>“The tall men.”</p><p>“Let me see.” The video showed a hand reach out and open the glass door. “There's nothing out there.”</p><p>“You shouldn't have opened that,” the girl remonstrated.</p><p>“Why not?” The door closed again.</p><p>“They'll want to come in.”</p><p>“There's nobody there. Look.”</p><p>“They're not out there anymore.”</p><p>“Where are they?</p><p>The girl paused. “They're here now.</p><p>The camera swung around the porch. “Where?”</p><p>“There.” She paused and cocked her head, staring at one corner of the room. “Hello.”</p><p>The boy’s voice sounded pleading. “Eurus, please don't.”</p><p>The video ended.</p><p>John processed what he’d just seen. The little girl—Eurus—reminded him of Sammy. Her gaze older than her years, knowing she was seeing something impossible and creepy, but not being frightened by it. She was matter of fact, calm. And there was the fact that she was seeing tall men, just like Sammy.</p><p>“More fucking tall men,” he muttered. “Why isn’t this video with the Torres file? It might be a different person, but it’s the same thing.”</p><p>Sherlock pressed his lips together until the seam between them was white. “This was my first case,” he finally said slowly, not looking at John. “It’s where my career really began.”</p><p>“Oh. You kept it separate because it was special? Like that first pound note every restaurant tacks to their wall by the till?”</p><p>With a head shake that almost seemed sad, Sherlock huffed. “If only. It’s more complicated than that, John.”</p><p>“It always is.” John leaned so their arms touched, showing his support. Sherlock leaned back.</p><p>“I was there when it happened. That’s me behind the camera.” The words were stilted, like he was working against a great force just to get them out.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Eurus was—is—my sister.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Sherlock looked at John, his face saying <em>really?</em> though he kept silent.</p><p>“Okay, yeah, I heard you. I just, just can’t believe it. You have a sister you never told me about?”</p><p>Of course he did. Sherlock couldn’t have a secret macrame hobby, he had to have a secret fucking sister. Not to mention his formerly secret maybe boyfriend.</p><p>“Is it really so difficult to believe? I didn’t tell you who Mycroft was the first time he kidnapped you. He and I wouldn’t even be on speaking terms if he didn’t track my every move. He tracks hers, too, and keeps each of us informed if anything monumental happens to the other, but that’s our only contact these days.”</p><p>He was right, John realized. Him keeping quiet about a sister fit perfectly with Sherlock’s modus operandi. “Is that a family trait or just a Sherlock trait?” he asked.</p><p>Sherlock shrugged half-heartedly and looked down at his hands folded in his lap. “My parents were quite ordinary, and you know how Mycroft is. It could be just a me thing, with Eurus allowing it. She’s always been the most sensitive of the three of us. We were close as children you know. Each other’s only friend during our formative years.”</p><p>John hummed. “Is that why she could see the tall men? Because she’s sensitive?”</p><p>“There are no tall men, John. It was a fantasy. Make believe. And I–” Sherlock cut himself off with a grunt.</p><p>“And you …?”</p><p>Sherlock shuddered a breath out, long and deep. “I … went along with it. Said I’d film her. Make it an investigation. It was fun at the time.” His eyes went hazy and unfocused, as if whatever he was looking at wasn’t in the room. “It’s odd. I believed her. I’d already proven our parents did the Father Christmas thing, and I’d seen no other sign of the paranormal, but she was my sister, my best friend, and she really seemed to believe it herself, so I did too.”</p><p>“You never disproved it.”</p><p>Sherlock shook his head. “There’s nothing to go on, nothing to see for anyone besides the one who claims to see it. You can’t disprove that.”</p><p>“Where is she now? What does she do?” John was curious journalistically. He wanted to track her down and get her side of the story. But it was more than that. He wanted to know everything about Sherlock, whether it had to do with the paranormal or not. He wanted to know what formed him, what made him tick, what influenced his actions.</p><p>“Glasgow. She’s a writer, actually.” Sherlock glanced at him sideways and nudged his shoulder. “Fiction though.”</p><p>“Oh. I don’t recall any writers called Eurus.”</p><p>“She does short stories mostly. Stuff you’d find in literary journals and anthologies. She’s not really into the mass market scene.”</p><p>“Not a surprise, being related to you,” John teased with a smile.</p><p>Sherlock’s mouth ticked up for a moment, but then he frowned again. “John. I …”</p><p>John looked at him in concern. He looked like he had more to say. “What is it, Sherlock?”</p><p>“I saw the men too.”</p><p>“You–”</p><p>“At least I <em>thought</em> I did. I just wanted to let you know how persuasive Eurus can be. She made me think it was all real, that all the strange phenomena our mother talked about was actually true. She had me convinced I had … powers.” He turned to look at John with a serious expression. “I need to warn you, for when you talk to her.”</p><p>John let out a surprised hum. “Figured that out, did you.”</p><p>Sherlock gave him his patented <em>you’re an idiot</em> look. “John.”</p><p>“Right. Right. Yeah, if that’s okay with you, I would like to call her, get her side of the story.”</p><p>Resigned, Sherlock said, “I’ll get you her email address.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. A Blast from the Past</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which John and Eurus become friends,  Mycroft makes a very brief appearance, and Sherlock finds Victor.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>59 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>It turned out Eurus would be in London for a writing workshop a week after John emailed her, so they agreed to meet for lunch. John arrived first, having stormed out of the flat after one of the usual tiffs with Sherlock, who was still in a right state, their talk about Eurus having only been a reprieve. He’d worked out most of his frustration on the long walk to the restaurant and was now feeling anxious for Sherlock’s sister to arrive. He wondered if she had Sherlock and Mycroft’s gift for observation. Was she acerbic like Sherlock or shiftily diplomatic like Mycroft? Did she still believe in the paranormal?</p><p>A woman slid into the chair across from him. She had chin-length dirty blond hair, a cute upturned nose, and a sardonic smile that reminded him of Sherlock. The only physical feature they shared, though, were light, color-changing eyes. “John Watson,” she said. “Eurus Holmes.” She stuck out a hand, which he shook.</p><p>“Ms. Holmes.”</p><p>“Dear God, no. It’s Eurus, and you’re John, and we’re going to be friends.”</p><p>John cocked his head. Friendlier than Sherlock, but just as forward, just as willing to state what she wanted up front. He couldn’t help but be charmed by it. “Alright. Why is that?”</p><p>“Because you live with my sweet brother, and I’m tired of getting my dirt from Mycroft.”</p><p>John laughed. As the oldest himself, he understood Mycroft’s need to look after his younger siblings. Still, the man was excessively nosy, and he didn’t blame Sherlock and Eurus for trying to distance themselves from their big brother.</p><p>“I don’t know that I’d call Sherlock sweet.”</p><p>“John,” she admonished, her tone <em>so</em> similar to Sherlock’s. “He’s a paranormal investigator who helps out the police for no pay.”</p><p>John nodded. “You have a point.”</p><p>Her face went serious. “How is he, really?”</p><p>“Not so good at the moment. He got a message from Victor recently, asking him to stop looking for him. It’s made him …” He ran his hands through his hair, unsure how to word it.</p><p>“Obsessive?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>She nodded. “To be expected. I’m assuming everything in your blog has dredged up some buried feelings too.”</p><p>“Yeah.” John sighed. “I didn’t mean … I never meant to do that to him. This all started out as a fluff piece, but it turned out to be far more complex than I expected. Than even he expected, I think.”</p><p>“I think it’s good, though, that some of these things are coming to a head. He needs to face his demons.”</p><p>John felt his eyes widen. “Interesting choice of words.”</p><p>She raised an eyebrow. “So, I was right then. You contacted me about that tape we made when we were kids?”</p><p>There it was, confirmation that Eurus could put together the pieces just like her brothers. “Yeah, he showed it to me last week.”</p><p>“Of his own accord.”</p><p>“Um, no. I, uh, brought it up after someone gave me your name.”</p><p>She nodded wearily. “Right. What did he say about it?”</p><p>John shrugged. “Not a lot. Just that when you were young, you claimed to see tall, dark men. He wanted to investigate, you made him believe he could see them too.”</p><p>“Sounds like Sherlock.”</p><p>“When did you last see him?”</p><p>“Mother’s funeral.” She rolled her eyes when John widened his in surprise. “Of course he didn’t tell you. Yes, both of our parents are dead. Dad a decade back, Mother three years ago. I reckon you didn’t know that Sherlock took after Mother then, either. She studied the occult, though she did it from a tenured archeology position at a university, rather than as an independent consultant. We didn’t see her much as children.”</p><p>“Was she the reason you claimed to see the men?”</p><p>Eurus raised an eyebrow. “Not shying away then? Good. Sherlock needs someone like that.”</p><p>“We’re not–”</p><p>“It’s just as important in a friend, John. Although, I will say you’re just what I imagine his type is,” she added with a wink.</p><p>He warred with himself on which track to follow. His journalistic curiosity won out. If they really were to be friends, he could ask more about Sherlock’s romantic inclinations later.</p><p>“The men?”</p><p>“I wasn’t pretending. I really did see them. Did until puberty. Same as Sherlock.”</p><p>“You’re certain Sherlock actually saw them? That he wasn’t just playing along for your sake?”</p><p>She laughed a little bitterly. “God, no. He hated that he could. He tried to deny it. It was only because I could read him so well that I knew. He might have gone along with the videos and the questions for my sake, but he never admitted in so many words that he could see them too. But I could tell, I saw it in his eyes, the way he’d plead with me to stop. The way his eyes would dart right to the men when they’d appear, then shy away.”</p><p>“What do you think they were, the men?”</p><p>“People from an alternate universe? Aliens? Demons? I don’t know. But they were creepy as fuck.”</p><p>“Why do you think you could see them? Most kids can’t.”</p><p>“Mother.”</p><p>John wrinkled his brow. Interesting how Eurus was so much more up front about everything. He wished he’d found her earlier. Maybe his investigations would be further along than they were.</p><p>“Your mum?” he asked her.</p><p>“Yeah, I don’t know the details, but she had to have something to do with it. She watched us so carefully, when she was around at least. She would be gone for weeks at a time on ‘business trips,’ but when she was home, her focus was on me and Sherlock. Well, for a while. When I was about ten, she stopped paying attention to me. She was angry when he let her know he wanted to go away to uni, but she finally acquiesced when Victor talked her into it.” She frowned at the mention of Sherlock’s friend.</p><p>“You didn’t like him?” He tried to be casual in asking, but with her sidelong look, he knew he hadn’t succeeded.</p><p>“Not in the beginning, no. He watched Sherlock just as carefully as Mother did. They were inseparable, and not in a good way. But when they visited home during the summer hols after their second year of uni, he was different. He had that same infatuated-happy look Sherlock did. He was less detached and cold. He looked like he wanted to be with Sherlock forever. Until he disappeared, that is.”</p><p>John felt something well up inside him as she talked. Part of him was jealous that this boy had known Sherlock before he’d put up his walls. Part of him was glad Sherlock had someone to lean on, someone who understood him. And part of him was just happy to be getting any information on Sherlock that didn’t come straight from the man’s stubbornly schtum lips.</p><p>“Do you have any ideas why Victor might have disappeared?”</p><p>“Not really.” Eurus gave an apologetic shrug. “He seemed conflicted the last time I saw them, but not like he wanted to leave Sherlock. If anything, he seemed more in love than ever.”</p><p>John nodded, though his stomach twisted. He decided to get back to their original topic. “So, you think your mum had something to do with you and Sherlock seeing the tall men, but you don’t know what. What else can you tell me about your … gifts?”</p><p>“Seeing the tall men was about it for me. Sherlock, though, he … knew things,” Eurus mused, playing with her silverware.</p><p>“Knew things?”</p><p>She leaned forward conspiratorially. “Did he tell you about the dead body he found?”</p><p>“What? No.”</p><p>“He was about fifteen when it happened. There was a teen who went missing in our village, which, given how small of a community it was, was strange. So he, being the paranormal investigator he’s always been, decided to find him. It took less than an hour for him to find the body. It was by the river, with some weird symbols and ritual-looking objects surrounding the kid.”</p><p>“But that’s what he does,” John argued. “He reads the scene, and he figures out what really happened. Why do you think that’s a paranormal gift? I admit he sees way more than us regular people do, but there’s nothing supernatural about it. He’s a genius. Amazing, but just a genius.”</p><p>Eurus smiled softly. “I’m glad he has you, John. He needs someone to see him for real. But no, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’ve seen him do that, and I understand how he comes to his conclusions. But this was different. We were hanging out in our back garden when we heard the news from a neighbor kid. No one knew much. The teen just disappeared one afternoon after school, no clues as to where he went. I saw Sherlock going on alert, saw the gears turn. But there was something else. It’s like he was listening to a radio in his head. He said he needed to find the missing boy, then stood up. Victor and I followed him through the house and out the front door, where he stood on the steps for a while, eyes closed. Then he said, ‘I know where he is,’ and headed down the pavement toward the edge of town. He would stop from time to time and close his eyes, then adjust his direction and start walking again. Within an hour, we came upon the body. I’d never seen him do that before, John. This wasn’t how he usually deduced things.”</p><p>John had to agree it didn’t seem to be the way Sherlock normally worked. He’d had months to watch his friend do his detecting thing, and while he did a lot of mind work the rest of the world couldn’t comprehend, there wasn’t this instinctive homing thing. Sherlock was just really good at putting together disparate information.</p><p>“Is that the only time that happened?”</p><p>“To that extent, yeah. But sometimes he would just know things, things that even his genius brain couldn’t figure out. Things I couldn’t figure out, and I’m nearly as smart as he is.” She smirked as she said it.</p><p>John liked Eurus. She was the playful younger sister he’d never had, having never really got on with Harry, who was too much like himself. Plus, she was this wonderful, untapped source of information on Sherlock. He wondered why his flatmate never talked to her.</p><p>“Why don’t you and Sherlock keep in touch?”</p><p>She shrugged. “The older he got, the more stand-offish he became. It made sense with the wider world, who didn’t really accept him, nor he it, but I never found out why he turned away from me. We were so close as kids. Maybe it was just that I found acceptance from other people, that I found it easier to interact with them and lead a quote-unquote normal life.”</p><p>“You didn’t fight it when he pulled away?”</p><p>“It was gradual, and it mostly happened when he went away to uni, so I thought it was just normal growing up. I fought it for a while, but when he continued, I accepted it. It was his choice to turn away.”</p><p>“You don’t hate him for it?” John admired her patience and acceptance. God knew he raved and ranted any time Sherlock pushed him away.</p><p>“Not now. I have more important things in my life to worry about. He texts and emails from time to time when he needs information I might know. I know he’s doing okay.” She looked sad but resigned, fine lines pulling at her forehead and mouth, but her eyes stayed soft. “I’ll happily welcome him with open arms if he ever wants that, but I won’t push.”</p><p>They finished their meal with more lighthearted chatter, Eurus talking about her writing and what had brought her to London. It was fun, talking with someone smart but less annoyed with humanity. He arrived home in a much better mood than he’d left it in. He was making tea when Sherlock strolled into the kitchen.</p><p>“Oh, God, you <em>like</em> her.”</p><p>John cut off his absent-minded whistling. “Hmm?”</p><p>“My <em>sister</em>.”</p><p>He hadn’t told Sherlock where he was going, but he wasn’t surprised he’d figured it out. He was getting used to living with a genius who could figure out what you’d done that day just by the state of your shoelaces. His hackles went up far less these days when he was deduced. He was actually starting to like it. He could be lazy and just let Sherlock deduce everything rather than take the time to explain things.</p><p>John shrugged. “She’s fun. She’s like … a more upbeat version of you. And she knows all your childhood secrets. Like the time you stripped naked and–”</p><p>“Stop.”</p><p>With a grin, he went back to preparing tea, then set everything down on the table.</p><p>Seeing the two mugs, Sherlock scowled and sat as well. “I’ll go back to my room if all you’re going to do is extoll her many virtues.”</p><p>“Huh?”</p><p>“Eurus. I can tell you’re quite taken with her. But I don’t want to listen about how she’s funnier and kinder and smarter and–”</p><p>“Sherlock.”</p><p>“What.” His tone was venomous.</p><p>John knew Sherlock wouldn’t be happy to discuss the sister he never mentioned, but his reaction seemed a little much, even for him. Eurus was right. He was insecure about her ability to make friends and not let her brain take over her every waking moment or something. John sympathized with his friend. He and Harry had a similar relationship.</p><p>“What did you do while I was out?”</p><p>Sherlock relaxed, and John knew he’d said the right thing.</p><p>***</p><p>“You’re meddling in things you don’t understand.”</p><p>John tensed at the words. He was used to Sherlock treating him like an idiot, and he understood that it was Sherlock’s misplaced frustration with himself that caused it, but Mycroft was just an arse. A nosy, smug, arse. One who felt the need to kidnap him on his way to do the shopping. Rude.</p><p>“There’s something going on here, and I’m going to figure it out.”</p><p>“Have you ever heard the term <em>apophenia</em>?”</p><p>“I don’t have to listen to this, Mycroft. I’m out of here.”</p><p>“Mr. Watson. Leave it.” The words were so cold and yet somehow so desperate that they made John pause his exit from Mycroft’s office.</p><p>“Thank you for confirming my suspicions,” he said without turning around.</p><p>There was a quiet sigh. “Look after him? Please?” This made John turn to face Sherlock’s older brother. He knew that look. That fierce protection, that worry. It was how he felt growing up with an out-of-control little sister, it was how he’d been feeling as he watched Sherlock spiral, as he watched conspiracy converge around his friend.</p><p>“I will.”</p><p>***</p><p>“Simon Reese has gone missing.”</p><p>John mentally shook his head to clear it. He’d got little sleep the night before, or the night before that and the one before that … He was still having those strange dreams—demons dragging Sherlock away screaming, bloody walls covered in symbols, tall men who jeered at him as he watched everything fall apart, helpless and frustrated.</p><p>“Simon Reese?” he repeated his flatmate’s salutary words, concentrating on making coffee.</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes were red and surrounded by dark smudges. These days, lack of sleep seemed to be the only thing they had in common.</p><p>“Fred Barnes just called. They couldn’t find Simon at curfew last night, and he hasn’t turned up yet.”</p><p>John checked his phone and noticed a missed call. “Kidnapping?”</p><p>Sherlock shook his head. “He left a note.”</p><p>“And.”</p><p>“‘I’m tired of taking their orders. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stay vigilant. I’ll be in touch.’”</p><p>“Huh.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Any ideas what it means?”</p><p>“Three.”</p><p>Sherlock looked pensive, so John didn’t push him. It wasn’t his stubborn look for when he kept things to himself for no good reason. It was his <em>I’m still puzzling this out and don’t want to theorize ahead of the facts</em> face.</p><p>“Anything I can do to help?”</p><p>“I don’t know …”</p><p>“Well, let me know.”</p><p>“Hmm.”</p><p>***</p><p>“I’ve found him.”</p><p>It was late. Or early. After the first week of insomnia, John had stopped looking at the time when he woke up. Instead, for the past few nights, he’d get out of bed—no use staying, he never got back to sleep after a nightmare—head downstairs, make a pot of chamomile, and wait for Sherlock to join him. Sometimes Sherlock was already in the lounge, tea prepared and at a perfect temperature. Some nights they’d watch mindless telly, others—the ones where Sherlock’s dreams seemed to be the worst—his flatmate would play the violin; quiet, mournful, helpless songs that made John want to cry.</p><p>Things felt different at night. There was no fighting, no churlish comments, no anger or annoyance. Instead, they bonded wordlessly, together in their sleeplessness. John wasn’t sure why Sherlock wasn’t sleeping, or what nightmares haunted him. They never discussed what brought them together in the night.</p><p>This was the first time either had made actual conversation during their nighttime interludes. It roused John from his sightless staring. Sherlock dropped his violin and bow to his sides and stared out the window down onto Baker Street.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Victor. I know where he is.”</p><p>John perked up. “What? Did he contact you?”</p><p>Sherlock gave a single nod. “I was getting close anyway when he sent me another message. We’re going to meet later this morning.”</p><p>“Oh. Good.” John wasn’t sure how he felt about this. He was glad there was a least one mystery done with, one less thing to distract and distress Sherlock. But at the same time, there was this little ball of jealousy that formed in his stomach any time Victor was mentioned.</p><p>“Will you come with me?” Sherlock’s voice was small, quiet.</p><p>John jerked his head up from where he’d been staring at the floor. “What?” He studied Sherlock’s face. He was half in shadow, the only light coming from the street below. Still, John could see the half moons under his eyes, his angles sticking out in stark relief. He really needed to eat more. John had been slacking on that front lately.</p><p>“I can’t … I need you to … I don’t want to go alone.”</p><p>“‘Course. Yeah, I’ll go with you.”</p><p>The tension in the lines of Sherlock’s back relaxed a little. “Thank you, John.”</p><p>“Anything for you, Sherlock. Anytime.”</p><p>It felt revealing to say it, but in this liminal space, that didn’t bother him. In fact, it felt more right than anything he’d said since they’d met. Sherlock relaxed further and nodded. He positioned his violin and bow and began to play again. John listened for the rest of the night.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Love is a Vicious Motivator</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which John and Sherlock meet with Victor, Eurus and John trade friendly insults, Sherlock and Eurus bicker, and John and Sherlock become best friends.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So I didn’t expect Eurus to hang around. But I liked writing her a few chapters back, and I thought we needed someone to draw out some feelings from Sherlock. He’s been so closed-mouthed this whole time. He needs a kick in the butt.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>54 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>“I don’t have much time before I need to move. Meeting you here is dangerous enough, but …”</p>
<p>“Needs must,” Sherlock rumbled from next to John in the booth of a diner they’d been sitting in for an hour, waiting for the third member of their party to show.</p>
<p>The man who had just slid into the seat across from them was worn, tired, and older, but recognizably the boy from the pictures John had seen of Victor. He looked across the table at Sherlock, and though worry and vigilance overshadowed his expression, John caught a hint of longing there as well. Surprisingly, instead of jealousy, John only felt sympathy for him.</p>
<p>“It’s good to see you, Sherlock. I missed you.”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s face, tense since they arrived, turned to stone. “Then you shouldn’t have disappeared.”</p>
<p>Victor’s expression fell, then became resigned. He nodded. “If I’d been able to do it another way, I would have, but they … I needed to get away. From you. To keep you safe.”</p>
<p>“Keep me safe?” Disbelief and anger warred for dominance on Sherlock’s face. “Why did I need to be kept safe?”</p>
<p>“Because they wanted you, and anyone or anything wanted by them … Nothing good comes of it.”</p>
<p>“Them?” It was the first thing John had said, and Victor looked at him hard.</p>
<p>“They have many names,” he finally replied, looking back at Sherlock. “All you need to know is that dangerous people want you.”</p>
<p>Sherlock huffed. “You’re being enigmatic on purpose.”</p>
<p>“They have spies everywhere, Sher. I can’t say too much.”</p>
<p>“Then why are you here?” John asked, annoyed. <em>Sher</em>? Really? Sherlock was not the nickname sort.</p>
<p>“To warn you off your investigations, Mr. Watson.” Though he addressed John, he didn’t stop staring at Sherlock.</p>
<p>“Why should we?” Sherlock retorted. He put a hand on John’s shoulder to signal their exit and turned to slide himself out of the booth. “If you’re not going to tell us anything, this meeting is no use. I’d say it was good to see you Victor, but–”</p>
<p>“I loved you.” Victor’s admission was quiet but hard. Sherlock froze, and John felt that ball of jealousy finally appear, pity gone. “I left because I loved you. Because I couldn’t spy on you anymore. Because I wanted you to have a normal life and not get caught up in this mess.”</p>
<p>John looked at Sherlock, whose eyes were darting about in his frozen face. After a minute of silence, he turned back to Victor. “Spy?” John didn’t blame him for skipping the emotional part and going straight for the hook.</p>
<p>“I was … placed near you, to become your friend, to watch you.” Victor gave a humorless laugh. “They actually called us Watchers, so prosaic.”</p>
<p>“Us?”</p>
<p>“Anyone who looked after a Chosen. Me, Maddie Franks, Sammy’s babysitter, Robert’s childhood neighbor, Simon’s father, your mother.”</p>
<p>“She was right,” John muttered in surprise.</p>
<p>“What?” Sherlock’s bright eyes turned on John. “Who?”</p>
<p>“Eurus. She said your mother was involved somehow in your and her ability to see the tall men.”</p>
<p>“I don’t have an ability,” Sherlock argued, but he sounded desperate, like he was trying to convince himself. John leaned in so their arms touched. Sherlock pressed in closer.</p>
<p>“Oh, Sherlock.” Victor looked both pitying and fondly exasperated. “You were the strongest they’d ever seen. Eurus had good potential, but she grew out of it, as some do.” He checked his watch. “I have to go. It’s not safe for us to be seen together. Look, please. Just stop the investigations. Maybe take a holiday, get away from this mess.” He stood up. “Stay here for another five minutes, then head out. It was … it was <em>good</em> to see you, Sherlock. Good luck.” He reached across the table, but Sherlock moved his hand out of reach before they could touch.</p>
<p>And then he was gone, sneaking out the back the same way he’d come.</p>
<p>“Well, that was …”</p>
<p>“A ridiculous waste of time.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“He’s further down the conspiracy rabbit hole than you or even your biggest fans are. He’s delusional.”</p>
<p>John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock still looked desperate. It was a lot to take in, but after everything he’d seen in the past few months, it wasn’t that much of a surprise.</p>
<p>“Sherlock,” he began softly, but was shoved out of the booth before he could continue.</p>
<p>“The whole thing is asinine.”</p>
<p>He stormed through the diner and out the door, John struggling to put on his coat and follow him. By the time he reached the pavement, Sherlock was closing the door to a cab. John sighed. Sherlock running when things got overwhelming was nothing new. He was about to head to the Tube station when his phone buzzed. Hoping it was a contrite Sherlock, he pulled it from his pocket. No. Eurus.</p>
<p>“Hello?”</p>
<p>“I got out of my workshop early today. How does a coffee sound?”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“Well you look like death warmed over.”</p>
<p>“And you look like shit.” John slid into the seat across from Eurus at the coffee shop they’d decided on and rubbed his hands through his hair.</p>
<p>Eurus laughed, her eyes crinkling endearingly. “You’ve got spunk. Definitely a good trait in anyone who wants to survive around Sherlock. I’ve been up late every night doing research. What’s your excuse?”</p>
<p>John shook his head. “Trying to survive.”</p>
<p>“Hmmm.” Her face did the scrunchy thing Sherlock’s did when he wasn’t satisfied with an answer, but she didn’t push. She waited a moment, then continued when John was silent. “So. Update me.”</p>
<p>“On?”</p>
<p>“Everything. Your research, the cases, Sherlock. I got caught up on your blog this week, did some digging of my own. I know things are getting … dicey.”</p>
<p>“And <em>how</em> do you know that?”</p>
<p>Another laugh. “God, John, the subtext in your blog is practically text. You barely need to read between the lines to know things are not going well. Your last two posts were badly written jumbles. You’ve lost your edge.”</p>
<p>John groaned and rubbed a hand over his face. “What did I do to be saddled with <em>three</em> Holmes siblings. Should I expect any more to pop up? A hang-gliding, crossword-puzzle-solving cousin perhaps?”</p>
<p>“No. Mother was an only child, and Dad’s only sibling had no children. We’re the last of the lot,” Eurus explained cheerfully. She crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. “So. Dish.”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>“I want to help! My brother is in trouble with some really weird stuff. Mycroft has apparently fucked off on the whole thing, which leaves me. You may not want a third Holmes sibling, but you damn sure are getting one. You need me.”</p>
<p>“To do what?”</p>
<p>“Research. Sherlock’s not the only Holmes with a mythology degree. And I’m less likely to pass off everything I can’t explain as fake.”</p>
<p>John conceded that with a head tilt. It would be nice to have a less skeptical version of Sherlock’s genius brain hanging around. “So you’re staying in town after the workshop is over?”</p>
<p>“Joys of being a writer. I can take a holiday whenever I like, as long as I have enough money to keep eating and don’t owe my editor new stuff.”</p>
<p>Knowing when to concede defeat—he’d had months of arguments with Sherlock for practice—John began to tell her the story, from the day he met Sherlock until the meeting with Victor earlier that day. Eurus stayed quiet for the most part, only asking a few questions for clarification. After he finished, she tilted her head contemplatively and stared off into space for a while. Recognizing it from Sherlock’s own stretches of silent thought, John let her be, taking the time to visit the gents’ and order more tea while he waited. When he returned to the table, she was typing furiously on an extra slim, streamlined laptop, frown of concentration firmly on her face.</p>
<p>“This could be a case as simple as a conspiracy theory, but,” she held up her hand to stop John from arguing, “not your theory, or even any of your fans. I’ve been looking into the Order of the Cenophus this week. I don’t know where I personally land on how real the paranormal is—I’ll leave that to my dear brother—but the Order members definitely <em>believe</em> they’re summoning demons.”</p>
<p>“Have you been able to figure out why?”</p>
<p>Eurus shrugged. “Five possibilities, none I’m willing to share until I learn more.”</p>
<p>John snorted.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“You just sound a lot like Sherlock sometimes. It’s uncanny.”</p>
<p>“But I’m definitely the prettier, more likeable one, right?”</p>
<p>John opened his mouth but nothing came out. He panicked. It seemed like anything he’d say would implicate him somehow. Especially to a Holmes. Not that sitting there with his mouth open was helping. He pointed a finger at her. “Not a word.”</p>
<p>Her face lit up, but she mimed zipping her lips.</p>
<p>“What about the Unsound?” he asked, wracking his brain for other things she could look into. Best to get her brain focused on things that weren’t him.</p>
<p>She shook her head. “I’m actually with Sherlock on this one. I don’t see the connection.”</p>
<p>“I admit it’s … tenuous. And perhaps it’s like Sherlock said, and I’m just seeing connections because I’m looking at all of these things at once. All of these paranormal stories being dumped on me is making me join up dots that don’t belong in the same picture.” He shrugged. “Monks are involved in both? Probably. And Percival Black was maybe sneaking out at night to do rituals in a cave with drawings similar to things we’ve seen around all the other—what are they called—Chosen children? And he’s the one possibly researching music to combat the Unsound.”</p>
<p>“Well. Maybe,” Eurus replied with a shrug. “I want to see all of your research and take a look at the famed Scarlet Files.”</p>
<p>John stared at her for a moment. “No. You want to– No. You can’t.”</p>
<p>She gave him that same damned puppy dog look Sherlock gave when he wanted John to do something. He hated that expression.</p>
<p>“Sherlock will kill me,” he pleaded. “He doesn’t want to see you. He doesn’t want to believe any of this is real. You should have seen him when we met up with Victor. He freaked out.”</p>
<p>“Just for half an hour. Please? It’ll really help my research.”</p>
<p>John sighed. Sherlock really was going to kill him. “Half an hour. No more.”</p>
<p>Eurus beamed at him. “Deal. Let’s go see Big Brother Number Two.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Sherlock was playing his violin when John opened the street door. Based on the musical choice, it sounded like the freak out had moved on to contemplation. That was good. They climbed the stairs and into 221B, Eurus hanging back by the door. John called to Sherlock as he walked up to him but got no reply, so he touched his shoulder.</p>
<p>“Sherlock?”</p>
<p>The violin cut off and Sherlock whirled around. “Oh, you’re back.” His face was a combination of happiness and … was that relief? Why was he relieved? “I thought–” He cut himself off when he caught sight of Eurus. “What is <em>she</em> doing here?” he spit out.</p>
<p>“Three years and I don’t even get a hello. Love you too, Brother.”</p>
<p>“Hello, Eurus. You’re looking well. In town for a workshop, are we? Lovely to see you. What. Are. You. Doing. Here?” He tried to spin back to the window, but John caught his elbow.</p>
<p>“Hey, she just wants to help.”</p>
<p>“There’s nothing we need help with.”</p>
<p>“Seriously, Sherlock? We get told just hours ago that there are some very bad people who want you, and you’re just going to shrug it off and say it’s nothing more than a silly conspiracy?”</p>
<p>“It <em>is</em> a silly conspiracy.”</p>
<p>“Sherlock! Whether people are summoning demons or not does not stop the fact that–”</p>
<p>“There’s a countdown clock, Sher.” Eurus’ voice was wobbly and quiet, but she still managed to command the room.</p>
<p>“So? There are lots of countdown clocks out there.”</p>
<p>“Someone left a URL for it on John’s blog. The Unsound post.”</p>
<p>“God! Not that idiotic story again–”</p>
<p>She glared and raised a hand to silence her brother. “I know, I didn’t think much of it either, but something John said today made me read through the comments again on the way over just now, and I found it. The countdown ends the first of November.”</p>
<p>“That’s just under two months from now,” John commented. “What’s going to happen then? What did the site say?”</p>
<p>Eurus continued staring at Sherlock. “When did you listen to the Unsound?”</p>
<p>Sherlock scoffed and turned back to the window.</p>
<p>John tried to remember what Sherlock had said when they’d talked about it. John’s post was from February. He’d said … it was a couple or so months before that? It was possible. “I’m guessing November. Last year.” He and Eurus shared a glance. “Sherlock, who knew when you listened to it?”</p>
<p>Sherlock stared out the window in silence, picked up his violin, and started screeching on it the way he did when Mycroft visited. John nodded to the kitchen. He and Eurus went through and closed the doors.</p>
<p>“He’s no use when he’s like this.”</p>
<p>Eurus rolled her eyes. “You should have seen him as a teenager. Summers home from school were terrible.”</p>
<p>John snorted. “I can imagine. Well, let me get you my research and a few of the scarlet files to take back to your hotel. Tea?”</p>
<p>Eurus agreed to the research and declined the tea. John hunted down a USB drive to copy his research on to while she took a look in the file cabinet. They were accompanied throughout by terrible violin noises that sounded more than a little cat-like rather than a musical instrument. Eurus took her leave as soon as they’d gathered everything, promising to be in touch soon.</p>
<p>John was contemplating leaving the house again when the noise stopped. He sighed in relief and went to make some tea. The tea earlier had done no good to wake him up. Though he was still annoyed, he put out a cup for his irritating flatmate as well.</p>
<p>Sherlock was still staring outside when John brought their mugs into the lounge and joined him at the window.</p>
<p>“Why did you ask <em>her</em> for help?”</p>
<p>John frowned. “I didn’t. She offered.”</p>
<p>“But you’ve been in touch this week.</p>
<p>“No. I haven’t talked to her since I interviewed her days ago. She called me after you <em>abandoned</em> me at the diner and asked to meet up.”</p>
<p>“God. It’s mutual. I should’ve–”</p>
<p>“What’s mutual?” John stared at Sherlock, whose face was set in hard lines, mutinous. What the hell was this about?</p>
<p>“Your attraction to her is obvious. I’m amazed she feels something in return. Not her usual type.”</p>
<p>“You think– I’m not– No, she’s nice and funny and tells me all about you. That’s all.”</p>
<p>Sherlock snorted.</p>
<p>“It <em>is</em>.”</p>
<p>“Then why did you bring her here?”</p>
<p>John gaped. God, Sherlock was completely oblivious sometimes. “Because she wants to help! Because she’s your <em>sister</em> and wanted to see you. She worries.”</p>
<p>“The last thing I need is another sibling sticking their nose in my business. I’ve already got Mycroft taking you away on a regular basis.”</p>
<p>“Oh my God. You’re jealous!”</p>
<p>Sherlock whipped around to face John. “What?”</p>
<p>“I always thought you threw a wobbly over Mycroft because he’s a nosy git and just plain annoying, but Eurus is a perfectly fine person. So, it’s not Mycroft that upsets you, it’s me talking to your siblings. Paying attention to <em>them</em> instead of <em>you</em>.” John was amazed to see Sherlock acting so … so human. And a little flattered, to be honest. He’d seen him reciprocate friendly feelings before, but this was big, this was real.</p>
<p>“Sherlock, I’m not going to leave you for them.”</p>
<p>“I’m not– I didn’t–” Sherlock’s eyes were wide with panic.</p>
<p>“You’re my mate, my flatmate. You’re …” John looked away, not able to face Sherlock while he admitted some of his own feelings. His voice went quiet. “You’re my best friend. I like living and working with you. I mean, you have your problems, but so do I. This life we lead, as weird as it is, is worth it. <em>You’re</em> worth it.”</p>
<p>He chanced a glance at his friend, then did a double take. Sherlock was stock still, face frozen except for his blinking eyes. “Sherlock?” he asked tentatively. Sherlock didn’t move or speak. “Ummm, you okay in there?” Nothing. He waited a minute. “That’s getting a bit scary now.”</p>
<p>Another minute and Sherlock finally took a deep breath and his face came alive again. “I’m your best friend?”</p>
<p>“Yeah. ‘Course you are.” John smiled at him.</p>
<p>“But I’m messy and loud, and I throw tantrums–”</p>
<p>“And like I said, I’ll put up with that shit because you’re also brilliant and you help the police for free and take charity cases that don’t really have anything to do with the paranormal. You dote on Mrs. Hudson, and you’re trying to be nicer to Molly. You play the violin when I can’t sleep. You force me to view the world through a different lens and challenge me to think deeper. You’re amazing, and I’m proud I have you as my best friend.”</p>
<p>“Oh.” Sherlock swallowed hard. “You’re mine too,” he replied softly.</p>
<p>“Okay. Good.”</p>
<p>They smiled goofily at each other for a minute, then John looked away, afraid his face would show just <em>how much</em> he liked Sherlock. Admitting the best friend part had been hard enough. He wasn’t about to give away his last secret. Not when the object of his affection was a self-proclaimed sociopath who was married to his work. And especially not when John’s own sexuality was something he kept close to the vest. The challenges of being out had driven Harry to drink. He wasn’t going to let the same thing happen to him. Maybe if Sherlock was– But no. He wasn’t outing himself just for the hell of it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Simon Says</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which the boys go on a bit of a scavenger hunt, meet up with Simon, and learn more about the upcoming apocalypse.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>51 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>“Simon Reese wants to meet with us,” John stated as he scanned their inbox looking for cases.</p>
<p>Sherlock held out his hand, so John tossed his mobile the short distance between their chairs. Things had been fairly calm between them since they’d discussed their friendship a few days before. There was still some tension as Sherlock continued to avoid even mentioning the Order of the Cenophus, the Unsound, or anything even tangentially related to either. John had kept his latest research and the correspondence with Eurus on the DL—not lying, but not mentioning it to him either. They needed some peace right now. He had a feeling it was the calm before the storm. Which might be ending, now that Simon had asked to meet.</p>
<p>Sherlock scanned the brief email, which stated only a time and place to meet—Sofia, Bulgaria, two days hence. He sighed and chucked the phone across the room and onto the sofa.</p>
<p>“Hey!”</p>
<p>“Don’t be boring, John.” Sherlock slid so he was slouched in his chair, head resting against the back, arms dangling off the sides. Definite signs he was about to throw a wobbly.</p>
<p>“No. No,” John argued. “You don’t get to do this now. This is serious, Sherlock. You could be in real danger, from real people.”</p>
<p>“And I’ll outwit them. Genius, remember? I think I can handle a few delusional conspiracy theorists.”</p>
<p>“And the more we know, the better prepared we’ll be. We should meet with him.”</p>
<p>“What if Simon is one of them, and us showing up in Sofia slots us neatly into a trap? Hmm? What then?”</p>
<p>“Then you’ll outwit them, like you said. But there’s a chance he wants to help. And I think taking a chance on him is worth it.”</p>
<p>Sherlock stayed silent, his face set in a scowl, his eyes looking away from John, which meant he didn’t have a good argument and hoped to just out-silence John.</p>
<p>“We’re going. I’ll book the flights after lunch.” That said, John stood to head into the kitchen. This far into their friendship, he knew how to deal with Sherlock’s sulks, and he was stubborn enough to win on occasion. He felt confident this would be one of those times.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>A day later, the battle won by John, the two men boarded a plane to Sofia, wanting to get in a day early to prepare as much as possible. Well, John wanted to prepare. Sherlock hadn’t said two words since their disagreement.</p>
<p>“If this is a trap,” John said, once they’d settled into their seats, trying for the third time to convince Sherlock why this was a good idea, “isn’t it better for us to meet it head on? Better to know exactly who or what we’re up against, rather than letting them skulk the shadows, their motives unexplained?”</p>
<p>Sherlock hunched in his seat. “Their motive is that they’re mad and think I’m some sort of demon magnet or translator or doorway or whatever. We don’t need to know anything more. Encouraging them will only lead to more trouble.”</p>
<p>“And since when do you, Sherlock Holmes, shy away from trouble? More than that, you’re a puzzle solver <em>and</em> a drama queen. This whole …” John waved his hands, “thing is perfect for you. I don’t understand why you’re fighting it.”</p>
<p>Sherlock shoved long fingers through his curls, face pinched. “Because every bit of it defies the logic and science that define who I am and what I do. Because it’s a ridiculous mess that doesn’t deserve my attention. Because it’s a waste of time!”</p>
<p>John pinched the bridge of his nose, tired of arguing already, but continuing nonetheless. “Sherlock. This <em>is</em> what you do. You research and explore the insane stories people come up with and prove them wrong. This is exactly the sort of thing you usually run <em>toward</em>, rather than away from. You love lording it over everyone else when you prove something is a fake. If this particular trip is a waste of time, then so is your whole life!” John cringed. That came out wrong. He tried to backpedal. “No. Shit, no, Sherlock. I didn’t mean–”</p>
<p>Sherlock stiffened. “Well, I guess it’s good this came out before we’d worked together too long. As soon as we return to London, I can give you your last paycheck and–”</p>
<p>John put his hand on Sherlock’s arm to stop him. “God. No. Sherlock. Really. That came out all wrong. I <em>love</em> what we do. I love that I’m a part of it. The last eight months have been … the best I’ve experienced in a long time. And that’s down to you. I just meant …” He scrunched his face and tried to parse his words. “I think this whole thing—the Order, sacred geometry, the Unsound—are worth us looking into. If we—if <em>you</em>—can prove they’re not real, then there’s nothing you can’t do. You’ll be the top in your field. Everyone will come to you for help.”</p>
<p>“I’m the <em>only</em> one in my field, John,” Sherlock said with a sniff. The way he straightened his shoulders told John he accepted the apology and was back to his usual arsehole form.</p>
<p>John smiled. “Yeah. Those other investigators don’t have a thing on you.”</p>
<p>He leaned back and let out a breath of relief. Crisis averted. He didn’t realize his hand was still resting on Sherlock’s forearm until he wiggled, trying to get comfortable in the terrible airline seat. John let go in surprise, his palm warm where it had lain against Sherlock’s arm.</p>
<p>“What if …” Sherlock began quietly, then trailed off. He was looking at his lap.</p>
<p>“What if what?”</p>
<p>He stayed silent for a while, leaning in so their shoulders touched. “What if … I can’t prove it’s all fake?”</p>
<p>John frowned. “What do you mean?”</p>
<p>“If you’re to be <em>believed</em>,” John hummed at the slight dig, but let Sherlock continue his train of thought, “this whole … conspiracy theory is tied to many of my scarlet files, cases I’ve been unable to disprove yet. What’s to say I can do it now?”</p>
<p>“Because you’re Sherlock Holmes, of course,” John said with a grin and an elbow nudge. Sherlock frowned, so he continued. “Seriously though? If you don’t, you don’t. We go home, add it to the scarlet files, and life continues, with you running after theories and me trailing behind, trying to write it all down.”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s frown grew. “You’re more than that, John.”</p>
<p>John shrugged. “You hired me to be your assistant. That’s what I am, with a side of popular blog to boost our ratings.”</p>
<p>“Don’t.”</p>
<p>“Don’t what?” What was Sherlock getting at?</p>
<p>“Demean what you do. You've never been the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light, you are … rather good.”</p>
<p>John frowned. “Was that meant to be a compliment?”</p>
<p>Sherlock looked affronted. “Of course. Some people who aren't geniuses have an amazing ability to stimulate it in others. You are one of those people. It’s nothing to scoff at. It’s a rare enough talent, and I’ve found it helpful a number of times.”</p>
<p>Well, it wasn’t exactly a heart-warming moment, but it was better than about half the things Sherlock had said to him since they met. And in its own Sherlockian way, it was praise, if one squinted just right. John decided to take it for a compliment and move on.</p>
<p>“Umm, thanks.”</p>
<p>Sherlock nodded primly.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The café Simon had named for their meetup was so crowded when they arrived, they almost didn’t find a table. With no sign of their contact yet, John took the opportunity to check out exits and get a couple of coffees. When he returned to their table, Sherlock was having a staring contest with a strange man sat across from him. Before John could fully seat himself, Sherlock stood.</p>
<p>“Come along, John.”</p>
<p>John paused halfway to sitting. “Wait. What? Is Simon here? Did he call?”</p>
<p>Rather than answering, Sherlock stalked to the door, and after taking a moment to abandon their drinks, John hurried after.</p>
<p>“Sherlock, what’s going on? Did you change your mind?”</p>
<p>Not breaking stride, Sherlock handed over a slip of paper, which gave a set of cross streets. He was already checking the map on his phone by the time John looked up from the paper.</p>
<p>“Compromised location?”</p>
<p>“Or he’s overly suspicious or is attempting to throw us off,” Sherlock rebutted, hailing a cab.</p>
<p>John shrugged and followed him into the vehicle. The trip was less than ten minutes, but when they’d reached it, a seemingly clumsy tourist bumped into John and left him with another paper with another intersection named on it. This one was across the city. When they finally arrived, they were met by a man who strongly suggested they follow him into a nearby back alley and through an unmarked, rusted door. The building seemed to be abandoned, the only furniture being the three chairs in the room the man led them to, one chair already occupied.</p>
<p>“A bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Sherlock asked Simon, who looked very unconcerned despite the complicated route he’d made them take to the location.</p>
<p>Simon shrugged. “Needs must. There are many people who want me—and you, Mr. Holmes—very badly.”</p>
<p>Sherlock rolled his eyes and slumped into one of the chairs, John following suit. “And now that we’re here, is there a purpose for calling us all this way from home?”</p>
<p>Simon raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you the least bit curious who is behind it all?”</p>
<p>“All what?” Sherlock emphasized the final T, looking mutinous.</p>
<p>“Life, the universe, and everything,” Simon shot back, extending his arms to encompass the surrounding area.</p>
<p>John snorted, but nixed the grin when Sherlock shot him a look simultaneously confused and quelling.</p>
<p>“No sense of humor,” Simon tsked with a teasing smile. Then he sighed and shrugged. “Oh well. The Order of the Cenophus wants you, you want to know why. And you want to know the connections to the Unsound and the shadow men. I have the answers.”</p>
<p>“And why are you suddenly so willing to help us?” Sherlock squinted at him suspiciously. “Did you have a change of heart? Did you see the light?” His tone was mocking.</p>
<p>“Nothing so dramatic,” Simon replied. “I simply got to the point where I was no longer a boon to the Order. I could let myself die—by the Order’s hand or by the world ending—or I could hide and try to stop them. Self preservation.” He shrugged nonchalantly.</p>
<p>“And why us?” John asked, feeling a little left out.</p>
<p>“Simple. The Order still wants Mr. Holmes here, despite his intractability and lack of training. Without him, they have a harder time of reaching their goal in time. Add on that he’s a genius and thus will strongly benefit whichever side he chooses, and the answer becomes obvious.”</p>
<p>“And what if I don’t choose a side? What if I refuse to play the game?” asked Sherlock.</p>
<p>“Then the Order finds another Chosen One, and the world ends on the first of November.”</p>
<p>Sherlock huffed and rolled his eyes.</p>
<p>“Believe me or not, but we can agree that some shadowy organization is after you for unsavory purposes. Wouldn’t it be better to try to stop them?”</p>
<p>“I can take care of myself.”</p>
<p>“You’re not the only one they want. You’re the main one, sure, but not the only. Sammy. Katie. Little Kurt.” Simon’s voice held a mocking note, but he seemed to be serious. “Children around the world will be taken from their parents, sacrificed for a cause.”</p>
<p>John leaned forward in his chair. “Wait, when you say <em>sacrificed</em> …”</p>
<p>“I mean it in the … shall we say, biblical sense.” Simon raised an eyebrow, looking calm as ever.</p>
<p>Which, how <em>could</em> he be so calm? He was talking about the murder of innocent children. Before John could expand on that, Sherlock leaned toward Simon.</p>
<p>“And how do we know any of what you say is true? The Order could be a bunch of nutjobs planning on standing in a Yorkshire field in November waiting for the second coming or whatever.”</p>
<p>“Bath, actually.”</p>
<p>John’s ears perked up, remembering his talk with the professor at Bath, and Percival Black’s disappearance after having been seen in the area. “Boulder Field?” he asked, naming the location the professor had given him.</p>
<p>Sherlock turned and squinted at John. “Boulder Field?”</p>
<p>“The place with the cave paintings I showed you pictures of. The ones that looked like a battle or ceremony?” It was nice being the knowledgeable one for once. He tried not to let it go to his head.</p>
<p>Sherlock sighed and looked back at Simon. “So, it’s happening at Boulder Field on the first of November. What else do you know? Assuming we choose to believe you, that is. You mentioned the Unsound.”</p>
<p>Simon grinned. “Ah yes. The Order played quite the trick there. And thanks to popular blogger John Watson, it worked.”</p>
<p>John stiffened. “What?”</p>
<p>“All those sound files you received, supposedly from Keith Dabic? You posted them to your blog.”</p>
<p>“The cure to the Unsound?” John asked. He remembered learning that Percival Black was researching that topic, and that Dabic had sent him some mysterious music files, but he wasn’t sure how they related to the apocalypse or coming of demons or whatever Simon was skirting around saying.</p>
<p>“So you were told. Or, more accurately, it was something you inferred.”</p>
<p>“So, if it’s not a cure, what is it?”</p>
<p>Simon sighed. “Where you not listening to me at all at Nether Edge?”</p>
<p>Sherlock straightened. “Doors.”</p>
<p>“Precisely, Mr. Holmes. Sacred geometry is great for creating doors. And music can be seen as–”</p>
<p>“Maths,” Sherlock murmured, looking thoughtful.</p>
<p>“Right again. Percival Black didn’t read music at university.”</p>
<p>The pieces clicked in place. “He read maths. And used it to create the music?” John surmised. “But what is the doorway for?”</p>
<p>“Really, John?” Simon’s tone made him sound eerily similar to Sherlock again. John wondered if that was natural or an affectation to throw him off. “For the demons, of course. They’ve been locked in a hell dimension for millennia. They want to come back through, rule the earth again.”</p>
<p>John shifted in his seat. He didn’t remember anyone talking about demons having ruled the earth before. “Again?”</p>
<p>“Before written history,” Simon explained. “All those oral stories handed down through different religions, talk of floods and fiery hail. Not completely off their mark.”</p>
<p>“So a few people listened to the songs on my blog,” John argued. “I don’t have <em>that</em> big of a fan base.”</p>
<p>“You were only one part of it. The darknet. The last song Wendt wrote before he died, the one that’s still be shared and downloaded to this day. Other music corners of the world. Millions of people have heard the songs, the symphony that will open the portals that have been closed since the ancients fought off the demons thousands of years ago.”</p>
<p>“What about the sacrifice? The children?” John’s skin crawled just thinking about the possibility.</p>
<p>“Geometry alone won’t open the doors. You need conduits, life willingly given.”</p>
<p>“Those children aren’t willing.”</p>
<p>“But the Order is. Plus, they’re children. They can be convinced they’re doing something great and wonderful.” Simon smiled softly. It was creepy.</p>
<p>“And Sherlock?” Sherlock stiffened at John’s question.</p>
<p>“Sherlock is the strongest psychic the Order has ever seen. He will be the key.”</p>
<p>Sherlock sniffed. “I think I’d know if I was psychic. Not that there is such a thing.”</p>
<p>Simon raised an eyebrow. “The tall men. You saw them often when you were a child.”</p>
<p>“Games with my sister.”</p>
<p>“Knowing where the dead child had been sacrificed, near your home when you were a teen.”</p>
<p>“I was solving mysteries even then. I used logic.”</p>
<p>“Do you really think you used pure logic to debunk all of your cases? That you were never led to the right place, the right idea, because of a feeling? A random thought that just popped in your head? How about the way you read people like books?”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s face grew harder and his back straighter the longer Simon talked. His hands were clenched so tightly the knuckles and the tendons were stark white. “You’re wrong. My abilities are my own. I earned them through practice and learning.”</p>
<p>John wanted to lean into Sherlock, to comfort him and show he was behind him, but he knew it would be seen as a sign of weakness by Simon, so he stayed put, hoping Sherlock knew he wasn’t alone.</p>
<p>“What do we do, then? To stop them,” he asked instead.</p>
<p>“Find them. Shut them down,” Sherlock replied.</p>
<p>Simon shook his head. “There are cells all over the world. You’d never find enough of them to make a difference.”</p>
<p>“If we can stop even some of the children’s deaths, it’d be worth it,” John argued.</p>
<p>“No, we need to stop everything.”</p>
<p>“How?” John asked again.</p>
<p>Simon smiled. “That’s something I’m still working on. I’ve found some things in the Codex Gigas, rituals and prayers that might stop the ceremony from even happening, but I need to do more research first.”</p>
<p>“Of course the Codex is a part of it too,” John muttered. He held up his hand before anyone could argued. “I know, I know, Cenophus origins. It just seems like <em>everything</em> I’ve learned about since meeting Sherlock has been connected in some way or another.”</p>
<p>“Assuming we decide to believe and help you, what do we do while we wait for you?” Sherlock’s tone was disgusted, and John wasn’t sure if that was because he hated the thought of believing in all this and helping Simon, or if it was just that he hated waiting.</p>
<p>Simon pull a USB drive out of his pocket and proffered it. When Sherlock refused to take it, John sighed and grabbed it himself. “This better not have a virus on it,” he muttered.</p>
<p>“Oh, don’t worry, John. I need your help. I wouldn’t want to hinder you in any way.” Simon’s smile was sickly sweet. John really didn’t like him.</p>
<p>“If that’s the last of the theatrics, we’ll be on our way,” Sherlock said dully, his face impassive.</p>
<p>“Well, I’d offer you tea, but …” Simon gestured to the rundown space around them.</p>
<p>Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up. John stayed seated a moment longer, studying the young man across from him. He was an arsehole, creepy, and probably untrustworthy, but he was also the only one—aside from Victor—who had offered them any sort of explanation. He didn’t want to believe a word the man said, but did he really have a choice? If there was even a chance that children would die if they didn’t find a way to stop the Order …</p>
<p>“John?” The word brought him out of his musings, and he stood. Usually when Sherlock was ready to leave, or annoyed, or both, he barked John’s name, ordering him to ‘come along,’ but his name this time sounded tentative, questioning. John looked at his friend, still standing a few feet away. He looked … vulnerable. Worried. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his fingers played with the cuffs of his coat, his brow creased.</p>
<p>“I’m with you,” he replied, meaning that physically he’d follow Sherlock, but he hoped his friend knew that he meant it emotionally as well. He would always follow, he would always stand by his side, he would always support him. No matter what.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. In the Still of the Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which sleepless nights lead to conversation, Feelings(TM) are announced, and John gains a bedmate.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>42 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>They did not speak, by tacit agreement, of what they learned on the trip until a few days after they’d returned to Baker Street. They were both trying to sort the new information internally, and John could tell Sherlock was mentally exhausted. And they both were still sleeping poorly, so a few days’ rest seemed the best course of action. They had a little time still before they had to make decisions.</p>
<p>John was the one to break the silence, one night as they sat in their chairs, drinking a ginger cherry herbal tisane he’d picked up when he realized their insomnia would persist. There was only so much chamomile a sane person could drink. Sherlock appreciated the change, if the way he held his cup up to his nose, just breathing in the bright scent, was anything to go by. He looked so soft and open, as he usually was during their late-night moments. His usual harsh mask was gone, and it was just Sherlock and John, two friends sharing a quiet moment.</p>
<p>And John ruined it by saying what had been on his mind for days, what he couldn’t hold back anymore. “I think we should team up with Simon.”</p>
<p>Sherlock lowered his cup, soft expression hardening as he studied John. “Why.”</p>
<p>“What choice do we have, really? He knows far more than we do. We can’t just ignore that something needs to be done. If the Order members are mad enough to believe they need to sacrifice innocent children, they need to be stopped.”</p>
<p>“And what do you believe, John?” Sherlock squinted at John through the gloom.</p>
<p>John sighed and rubbed his gritty eyes. Eight hours of sleep over the last four days total was taking its toll. He couldn’t think clearly. He didn’t know how Sherlock was managing to continue on normally. The man claimed to need less sleep than most people, but an hour or two a night was unhealthy for anyone. “I don’t know. Does it matter? What matters is stopping bad things from happening, which they will, no matter whether its supernatural in nature or not.”</p>
<p>“If you believe Simon.”</p>
<p>John shrugged. “His story jives with what Victor said and what Eurus has been able to find out. I don’t know that we can get more proof than that. The Order has been pretty secretive after all.”</p>
<p>“Victor told us very vague things that would easily fit into many evil plots. Eurus’s research is faulty because she’s working backwards. She will see connections where none exist.”</p>
<p>“I fucking hate apophenia.” John rolled his neck. “Well, then I guess I believe Simon. If there’s even a chance that children will be harmed, I have to help.”</p>
<p>Sherlock worried his lip as he stared into his tea as if it could give him the answers. “That part is … troubling,” he finally said.</p>
<p>“Sherlock …” John paused, trying to organize his thoughts. He had a feeling that how he spoke now would decide their future. “If we do this, we can only do it together. If you really don’t want to do this, I’ll stay with you. I won’t work with Simon without you. I think we … we need each other, no matter what we choose to do.” It was always so easy to speak his feelings during these liminal moments, when lack of sleep left him powerless to keep up his walls and his face was half hidden by the dark. He just hoped the same could be said for Sherlock.</p>
<p>His friend studied him, and John let him. He needed Sherlock to see how serious he was. “Need?” he finally asked.</p>
<p>In that moment, John knew what he had to do, what he needed—wanted—to say. “This is it for me. <em>You’re</em> it for me. I know you don’t– that you might not.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t know exactly what you want—or need—from me, but I want to be that for you.” He looked away from Sherlock’s intense stare, then back again.</p>
<p>“Even if it’s not–”</p>
<p>“Even then.”</p>
<p>“Or if it’s …”</p>
<p>“Anything, Sherlock. It’s the two of us against the rest of the world.”</p>
<p>Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again. Looked away, then back. He nodded. “And you’re not just saying this to get me to agree to work with Simon.”</p>
<p>“Promise. I just wanted you to know that you’re not alone. That you’re … loved. That I trust you.”</p>
<p>Eyes glassy, Sherlock nodded again. “I need to … think.” He rose from his chair and headed to his violin.</p>
<p>“I don’t require any answer. I just needed you to know.”</p>
<p>Sherlock quirked his mouth as he studied his bow far too closely. “I need to think about <em>Simon</em>, and what we’re going to do about him.”</p>
<p>John ran a hand through his hair. “Right. Not everything’s about you, Watson. I get it. Yeah, take your time though. Well, not–”</p>
<p>“–too much time,” Sherlock finished for him with a tight smile. “Yes, of course.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>When things finally resolved between them, it wasn’t the way John had imagined it. He had many possible scenarios, with every permutation of actions, charted out in his head. He’d discarded half of those when his own (sort of) declaration did not produce disgust or contempt in Sherlock. Those remaining ran the gamut from falling into bed together during a post-case high to impassioned declarations of love to sweet kisses after looking at each other just a little to long. Sherlock’s reactions ran from dramatic to shy to happy to even annoyed (just because he fell prey to a weak emotion like love didn’t mean he had to like it).</p>
<p>The common denominator in all of John’s scenarios, though, was that they were all single Events. There was a Moment, and after that Moment, they knew what they were to each other, and there was nothing left to resolve. There was a minute where they were friends, and there was a minute after when they were Together. But when John thought about it, how it ended up happening in reality was very Sherlockian. In cases, the way things usually went was that there was a problem stated, they talked about it a bit, Sherlock went off to his mind palace, he made decisions and acted on them without consulting John, a lot of things happened that John had to react to because he had no fucking clue what was going on, then the case was done, <em>then</em> Sherlock deigned to explain things to John. Usually over take away or tea.</p>
<p>The night after their talk, John went to bed at his usual time, somehow still harboring hope that he’d finally get a full night’s sleep. He read until his eyes grew heavy and he stopped paying attention to the storyline (the sister-in-law did it, which John had known from page 32 because some <em>berk</em> ruined the ending for him), turned out his light, and settled in to sleep. He’d reached the stage where he got fuzzy and floaty, where half the time he ended up jerking himself awake again. Tonight, though, it wasn’t his own traitorous body that jolted him back to reality, but a creak on the stairs. He stifled a groan and readied himself for whatever case or mad idea Sherlock had to execute right at that moment, rather than waiting for morning. He didn’t rise, though, resolving that if Sherlock <em>had</em> to do something right then, he would have to work for it. So he waited, lying on his back, eyes closed, duvet heavy on top of him.</p>
<p>The door squeaked as it opened, though there was no usual accompanying bang of the door being shoved against the wall. Instead, it squeaked closed again, and there was quiet shuffling as Sherlock’s feet crept across the floor. The covers pulled away, the other side of the mattress dipped, and Sherlock sighed as he slid into bed.</p>
<p>It was quiet for about two minutes, both of them lying side by side. John didn’t even know if Sherlock knew he was awake. It wasn’t an awkward wait. In fact, John started drifting off while he waited for whatever else might happen. Then Sherlock slide closer until his forehead (maybe?) touched the side of John’s shoulder. He let out a sigh as his hands lightly clutched John’s arm.</p>
<p>And that was it. John waited sleepily for more to happen and half-heartedly thought up quips and questions to try to understand what was happening, but he fell asleep before he could execute any of them.</p>
<p>When he awoke, it was almost four hours later, according to the clock. The room was dark and quiet, and he wasn’t sure what had woken him until he realized Sherlock was restless next to him. He was on his back now, and his hands and legs twitched, his head tossing back and forth on the pillow. John waited to see if he’d wake, but he didn’t. When he started breathing hard and whimpering, John decided to intervene.</p>
<p>“Sherlock,” he said lowly, rolling to his side and putting his hand gently on his friend’s arm. Sherlock did not react. He tried again, a little more firmly. “Sherlock. It’s alright. You’re safe.” Sherlock’s hand came up to grip John tightly. His palm was sweaty. “Sherlock. It’s John. I’ve got you. You’re safe. It’s just a dream.” He kept murmuring until Sherlock let out a sigh, his grip loosened, and his body stilled.</p>
<p>When John finally fell back asleep, their hands were still stacked on top of Sherlock’s arm, and they were curled into each other, warm and safe.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The next morning over breakfast, John broke their tacit rule and mentioned their sleepless nights and nightmares. He wanted to tell Sherlock he’d had a nightmare, but didn’t want to put him on the spot, so he brought up his own.</p>
<p>“I didn’t have a nightmare last night. First time in ages. It’s nice to be rested up for once.” He passed the jam jar to Sherlock and accepted the teapot from Sherlock in turn.</p>
<p>Sherlock frowned as he applied jam to his toast. “You had two nightmare events last night. You were talking about demons and clocks, and then you tried to climb out of bed. It took me three minutes and twelve seconds to calm you the first time and twenty-eight seconds the second time.”</p>
<p>John paused with his toast halfway to his mouth and wracked his brain. He didn’t remember any nightmares, though he could guess what dream it was based on Sherlock’s description. It was a frequent visitor. He’d awakened three times recently to find himself out of bed, so that part wasn’t a surprise either.</p>
<p>“Huh. I guess you calmed me before I could wake myself.” Of course, in stories where love conquered all, just having a loved one in bed made the nightmares disappear completely, but reality was different. What surprised John was that Sherlock had managed to calm him at all. Then he remembered his own waking from the night.</p>
<p>“You had a nightmare too. It took a couple of minutes to calm you as well.”</p>
<p>“Hmm.”</p>
<p>“Do you remember the nightmare?”</p>
<p>“Vaguely, but I can imagine how it went.”</p>
<p>Should he mention in actual words that they’d slept in the same bed? Should he ask <em>why</em> Sherlock had joined him in the first place? Was it an experiment? Was he just trying to get rid of the dreams, or was it related to their conversation the night before last? He took the coward’s way out and skirted around direct mention.</p>
<p>“It was nice, getting more sleep.”</p>
<p>“Hmm.”</p>
<p>Sherlock buried his head in a forensics journal and didn’t surface until after John had left the table to go shower.</p>
<p>And that was that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Waiting Game</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which nightmares are discussed, everybody bickers, bedswapping happens, and Sherlock makes a decision about the apocalypse.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>36 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Sherlock joined John in his bed around midnight for each of the next five nights. Each night they calmed each other’s nightmares, and each morning they gave only reports on those events, never mentioning Sherlock’s relocation. They learned that John wasn’t the only sleepwalker, and Eurus told them that Sherlock had suffered from somnambulism during childhood as well.</p><p>“Yeah, for as long as I can remember,” she said, settling into John’s chair, while he and Sherlock took the sofa—the two of them gravitating to each other without thought ever since Sherlock’s first night in John’s bed.</p><p>She sipped her tea. “I was a light sleeper, and I’d hear him get up sometimes. One time, early on, I thought he was making hot cocoa, and I wanted some so I got up and followed him, but he didn’t go to the kitchen. He went to the porch and stared out through the doors to the back garden.” She frowned and rubbed an arm. “Just … stared. I tried talking to him, but he wouldn’t reply. I must’ve been four at the time, so you were five.” She swung her gaze to study her brother. “Were you looking at the tall men?”</p><p>Sherlock fidgeted next to John. “I have no memory of somnambulism.”</p><p>John leaned so their shoulders touched. Sherlock relaxed a little. “He did this often?” John asked. He lifted his mug only to realize it was already empty. He’d need to start a line to send the tea straight to his veins soon. He was getting more sleep, so he didn’t need the caffeine, but the tea made him feel more human.</p><p>“A few times a month?” Eurus shrugged.</p><p>“Even in my late teens? Vi– Victor never mentioned it.” Sherlock was getting better about mentioning his old friend, but it still took effort.</p><p>“Well, if he was meant to be your Watcher, he would’ve known about it already, perhaps encourage it, if it was part of–”</p><p>Sherlock sat up straight and slammed his hands on the coffee table in front of him, making the two mugs on it rattle. “What was the one thing I asked you not to mention, Eurus?”</p><p>She rolled her eyes. “Mycroft.”</p><p>Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed through his nose. John tried not to laugh.</p><p>“That’s a given. What was the one specific condition for this particular visit?”</p><p>“<em>Don’t mention the paranormal, Eurus</em>,” she said, mimicking her brother’s affectations, if not his voice. “Which doesn’t seem fair,” she continued. “It’s your <em>job</em>. That’s like nine-tenths of your life. What else are we meant to talk about? Because I’m pretty sure John is the only other option.”</p><p>Both men froze, and Eurus laughed. “You two share a job and a flat. You’ve recently figured out you sleepwalk, Sher, so I’m guessing you share a bed.”</p><p>“I hate you,” was Sherlock’s sharp retort.</p><p>Eurus’s phone pinged before she could reply, and her face lit up. She put up a finger as she answered the call.</p><p>“Lily!” She smiled and listened. “Yeah, in London for a bit, until Sher gets tired of me, at least.” She winked at her brother.</p><p>Sherlock muttered, “so two weeks ago then.”</p><p>John knocked their knees together. “Behave.”</p><p>“Yes, Mother.”</p><p>“Prat.”</p><p>“Berk.”</p><p>“Children.”</p><p>They looked up simultaneously at Eurus’s raised voice. She looked more amused than annoyed, though.</p><p>“I’ve got to run. My friend is in the city for the day, so I’m going to go meet up with her. Can I drop by tomorrow? We can talk more then.”</p><p>“Must we?” Sherlock gave her a longsuffering look. “Shouldn’t you be heading back to Glasgow soon?”</p><p>“Three more days.” Eurus collected her things and breezed out of the room. “See you tomorrow. Kisses!”</p><p>Sherlock slumped back against the sofa and rubbed his face. “Just being in the same room as her for ten minutes is exhausting.” John chortled, and Sherlock opened his eyes to glare at John. “What?”</p><p>“You realize that’s how most people feel about you, right?”</p><p>Sherlock’s glare softened with timidity. “Even you?”</p><p>John smiled at him. “Only when we’re in hour thirty-six of an investigation, and I’ve been awake for all of them.”</p><p>Sherlock smiled back. “I reckon that’s allowed.”</p><p>“And maybe when you try to cover the wall in darts.”</p><p>“That was one time.”</p><p>“One more time than necessary.” John stood up. “Tea?”</p><p>“Tisane, I think. You don’t need any more caffeine.”</p><p>“Yes, Mummy.”</p><p>When John returned from the kitchen a few minutes later, Sherlock looked pensive.</p><p>“Penny for your thoughts.”</p><p>Sherlock glanced at him, then took the proffered mug. “Oh, nothing. Just …”</p><p>“Just?” John took a moment to take a proper look at his (more than a?) friend. Just because Sherlock was getting more sleep didn’t mean all was well. There was still Victor and child killers and Simon and loads of paranormal confusion to keep his mind stressed. It was good seeing him do something as simple as bicker with his sister, but that was a moment’s distraction. Real life was at the door, knocking incessantly.</p><p>Surprisingly, it wasn’t any of those things on Sherlock’s mind, at least not at the moment. He frowned. “My mattress is better.”</p><p>“Alright?” John tried to make the connection to anything they’d talked about in the last hour. Was he worried about finding occult symbols scratched into John’s admittedly old and scuffed headboard? Maybe there was more danger in sleepwalking in the smaller space, with stairs right outside the bedroom door? Then he realized what Sherlock meant.</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>Sherlock’s fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm on his mug. “It’s just– That is, if we … but we don’t have to– <em>I</em> don’t have to keep–”</p><p>“It’s bigger and probably has nicer sheets too. You seem like the type to have ridiculously posh sheets,” John teased, both letting Sherlock know he was okay with it and defusing the situation a little.</p><p>Sherlock ducked his head and stared at his mug, which was both unusual for him and adorable. John thought he saw a little flush on his cheeks too. Definitely adorable.</p><p>Having more than his share of emotions for the moment, Sherlock leaped to his feet and crossed the room to his violin. John watched as he warmed up and started playing. He had a sheet of paper in front of him—composing then. The sound was odd, though. More atonal than his usual compositions. Screeching violin was nothing new to Baker Street, but usually it was reserved for scaring off anyone Sherlock didn’t want to talk to. He’d never actually sat down and composed such odd music. John shrugged. They were in a weird place these days, not surprising that it would come out in Sherlock’s music.</p><p>They might need to talk about their relationship soon, but John was content to wait a while. He’d stated his own intentions, and Sherlock had shown he was at least amenable to some of John’s wishes. That was enough for the moment.</p><p>***</p><p>The wait was shorter than John expected. He puttered around the rest of the day—did some cleaning and laundry, read a few magazines so he could bin them in hopes of finding their desk buried under three layers of files and papers, made a shopping list. It was one of those rare quiet days with no cases or even experiments. He really should have done some more research, but he was hesitant to interrupt this soft and homey atmosphere that pervaded their space so rarely. He ended up in front of their bookcases, trying to find a book he could half pay attention to while discretely watching Sherlock do his own lazy puttering. He heard him come up behind him as he perused their library but didn’t turn around, expecting that Sherlock either wanted a book of his own or would make his needs otherwise known with some sharp command.</p><p>John was surprised when Sherlock stopped a few inches behind him and said nothing. He was about to open his own mouth to query when Sherlock finally spoke.</p><p>“I’ve never been skilled at interacting with people. I had my siblings when we were young, and that’s all I ever wanted. Then there was Victor … and that was flattering and wonderful, until he was torn from me.” Sherlock huffed. “Then after I’d finally got over that and you came along, I thought maybe … But then I found out that Victor was a lie. And I wondered if you–” John opened his mouth to retort, but Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He sniffed and continued, voice a little husky. “But somehow, I know. This is real. You’re real. And for some reason, you think I’m worth it. It’s flattering … but it’s also just very comfortable. I can be myself and not worry that you’ll leave in a huff and never come back. Instead, you’ll leave in a huff <em>but</em> you’ll come back.”</p><p>John took the opportunity of Sherlock taking a wobbly breath to slip in his reassurance. “Always.”</p><p>The hand on his shoulder tightened. “That’s what makes it real. Even after knowing Victor for a decade, I always worried that one day he’d leave. A little part of me wondered if that’s what happened when he disappeared. That he’d finally had enough of me. But with you, I was comfortable almost immediately.”</p><p>When John put his hand on top of Sherlock’s on his shoulder, he felt a pressure at the back of his head where Sherlock laid his forehead against it. His breath tickled on John’s neck.</p><p>“I don’t think I can ever leave you either,” said Sherlock, referencing John’s own words from a few nights before. “I think I’d die without you.”</p><p>Unable to keep his back to Sherlock, but not wanting to alarm him by <em>looking</em> at him, John pivoted and quickly pulled his friend into a tight hug, tucking Sherlock’s head into his shoulder. Sherlock shuddered and put his arms around John’s waist.</p><p>“The two of us against the rest of the world,” John whispered.</p><p>***</p><p>They moved down to Sherlock’s room that night. As John sleepily made his way to the bathroom, Sherlock offhandedly announced from the desk—where he was four folders deep into some unknown research—that his ridiculously posh sheets were clean. John, not wanting to ruin the moment by actually acknowledging anything, hummed vaguely, went to brush his teeth, then climbed into Sherlock’s (their?) bed. He slid smoothly over said ridiculously posh sheets and snuggled under the covers with a smile.</p><p>Sherlock joined him at some point in the night, and that was it. They were a … Them. Best friends, but also something else. It was physical only in the sense that their limbs brushed each other during restless moments, that they woke with only an inch of space between them. And there was more touching during waking hours, comforting and soft. John took to bussing a kiss to Sherlock’s head when he walked by his chair. Sherlock would slide a hand over John’s shoulder as they passed each other. They sat together on the sofa more often than in their individual chairs. It wasn’t exactly a <em>normal</em> relationship, but then again, neither were they. It wasn’t a surprise, because it was Sherlock, who had never seemed particularly interested in gross matter, except when it was under a microscope or on a slab at the morgue. And John was a grown man who’d sowed his wild oats across three continents, who knew how to take things in hand, as it were (in the shower, where it was easy to clean up), when he felt the urge. What mattered was that they had each other, and they were happy and comfortable.</p><p>John knew it was a respite, that they’d be spurred into action again soon whether they liked it or not, so he savored those quiet, easy days. He made himself a mind cupboard, where he neatly stacked memories on shelves—Sherlock playing his violin, mocking the television, heavily marking up forensic journals to send back to the editors; the two of them giggling over dumb stories in the paranormal world; Mrs. Hudson smiling softly at them across the table as they took tea with her. One day, he simply stood in the sitting room and closed his eyes so he could take in the sounds and smells of their flat—dust, chemicals, buttery popcorn from a film marathon the evening before, cars wooshing down the street, Mrs. Hudson hoovering downstairs, Sherlock muttering while angrily tapping at his keyboard (probably debunking another myth on a message board).</p><p>One morning, he leaned down to kiss Sherlock’s curly head, and Sherlock caught and held his hand on his shoulder. “Contact Simon. I’m ready to negotiate.”</p><p>John had known it was coming. But that didn’t mean he was ready for it to begin.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. I Will Follow You Into the Dark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which John and Sherlock go to Wales, John enjoys autumnal foliage, and they hang out in a cave with Simon.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The case John (briefly) refers to in his post is taken from episode <a href="http://theblacktapestranscripts.weebly.com/episode-108-board-to-death.html">1.08</a>.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Sorry for the delay in writing, mates. We were busy for a while with cases, travel, and visiting family. I’m back with another tale, though. And I think you’ll really like this one, it’s pretty creepy. We’re going to talk about Ouija boards and something called the ideomotor effect. Now, bear with me. I promise it’s more interesting than the name sounds.</p>
  <p>The place: Imperial College London. The year: 1993. We had to watch an honest-to-God VHS of this one. Do you kids even know what a VHS is?</p>
</blockquote><p>***</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>28 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>“Ugh, why are you writing up that case? It was boring.” Sherlock hung like a specter over John’s shoulder.</p>
<p>John deleted the last sentence and rewrote it. “You say that about all of them, love.”</p>
<p>“Because ninety-three percent of the time, it’s just idiotic charlatans, hoping to make some money or gain some followers or whatever it is humans enjoy having more of. Five percent of the time, it’s something like apophenia or the ideomotor effect. Two percent of the time, science is not sufficiently advanced enough to explain.” Sherlock slide his hand from John’s shoulder down his arm before drawing away to go perform his overwhelmed Regency heroine act on the sofa. His dressing gown fluttered as he landed. John was fairly certain he practiced to get it just right.</p>
<p>“When you’re a genius, everyone’s an idiot,” John muttered, tapping out a few more sentences.</p>
<p>Not only was he behind in posts, but he needed to work on creating a backlog of them, just in case things got hectic, as he was assuming they would. The only word from Simon so far was “wait,” and Victor was MIA. Mycroft was working on something big elsewhere (John had needed to look up 'squamous' after Sherlock’s latest vague explanation; it didn’t help), and Eurus was in a flurry of short story writing, so it was just the two of them in the center of the storm. Sherlock had worked through his inbox in less than a week. He hadn’t stopped complaining about his boredom since. John was hoping he’d decide to blow up the kitchen, just to keep him distracted.</p>
<p>He worked on his post for a few more minutes before he was distracted by his phone trying to vibrate off the desk. He grabbed it and answered.</p>
<p>“Hello?”</p>
<p>“Wales. Three days. I’ll send coordinates and time.” The line clicked before John could even react.</p>
<p>“Huh.”</p>
<p>“Mmm?”</p>
<p>Sherlock still lay with his arm dramatically thrown across his face. John watched him as he said his next words. “Simon wants to meet.”</p>
<p>The room went still, but Sherlock didn’t say anything.</p>
<p>“You still want to do this, yeah?” John stood and walked over to sit on the coffee table. He put a hand on Sherlock’s head. “Whatever you want to do, I’m with you.”</p>
<p>Sherlock dropped his arm enough to peak out from behind it. Whatever showed on John’s face made him sit up to face him. He said, slowly, “We can’t leave innocent children to the machinations of madmen.”</p>
<p>And something in John relaxed. He really would have followed Sherlock wherever, but he was glad he was following him exactly where he himself wanted to go. The hand that had been on Sherlock’s head had slid to his shoulder when he sat up, and John brought it and his other hand up to cup Sherlock’s face. “I’m with you,” he reiterated.</p>
<p>Sherlock leaned in until their foreheads touched and said, “against the rest of the world.”</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>It was as if Simon’s call unlocked something. Their peaceful, homey center of the storm had passed. It started with their dreams. They got worse. It was harder to calm each other in their sleep. They had a harder time returning to sleep too. It was easier to bear, though, with a bedmate. Instead of meeting in the sitting room for tea and violin, they often stayed in bed, holding each other and whispering. Sherlock opened up about his childhood. Not about the tall men, but the years when he'd loved Eurus and Mycroft without a care. Childhood experiments. His dog, Redbeard. John in return talked about the war, and how he got there from being a journalism student.</p>
<p>Two days after the call, they found themselves in Liverpool, where they stayed the night and waited for coordinates and a time from Simon. The next morning, after a text from Simon, they headed west into Wales. The sat-nav in their hired care pointed them near a town called St Asaph. They followed a small road out of town to an even smaller lane guarded by trees gilded with autumn colors. John wished they were there under better circumstances. The view was breathtaking. Granted, they would never come to such a spot simply for leaf peeping. That was far too prosaic for Sherlock. But it was nice to think about.</p>
<p>They pulled off the side of the road and waited for Simon. John got out of the car. If he was going to be forced to drive four hours from home, he was going to get some pretty pictures out of it. For once he was glad Harry had given him an expensive phone with a camera.</p>
<p>“Are you <em>leaf peeping</em>?” Sherlock called, rolling down the passenger window.</p>
<p>“Yeah, why not? We’re here, we’re not doing anything.</p>
<p>Sherlock huffed but opened the door to join John.</p>
<p>“Kind of spooky, with the trees half empty, the fog creeping through,” said John.</p>
<p>Sherlock hummed and crossed his arms. John took a few more snaps before a rustling noise caught their attention.</p>
<p>“This way.”</p>
<p>It was Simon, waving for them to follow. They trekked a short distance through the trees until they reached a cave entrance. John and Sherlock stopped, glancing at each other.</p>
<p>“If I wanted to murder you, I could do it while you’re sleeping in bed.” Simon looked exasperated.</p>
<p>“Little easier to hide the bodies out here in the woods, though,” John said.</p>
<p>“I wanted to show you some paintings, that’s all. And talk without CCTV nosing in.”</p>
<p>By mutual tacit agreement, John stood at the entrance of the small cave, his focus split between the entrance—in case of evil lackeys trying to block them in—and Simon and Sherlock at the back of the cave—in case of evil Simon.</p>
<p>“It’s like Bath,” Sherlock said, peering at the back wall.</p>
<p>John couldn’t see much beyond some smudges, mostly dark, but he remembered what the pictures of the caves at Bath looked like and could imagine. The same army worshipping or listening to a taller figure. The symbols that signified early writing.</p>
<p>Sherlock muttered and darted around the cave, snapping pictures from different angles. Simon left him to his studies and joined John at the entrance to the cave.</p>
<p>“Why did you bring us here?” John asked. “It wasn’t just to show us more cave paintings.”</p>
<p>“You’re correct,” Simon said. “I could have sent you pictures. This site is not relevant to the Order of the Cenophus’s current goals.”</p>
<p>“Apocalypse.”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“What about it? What are we going to do? How are we going to stop it?”</p>
<p>“I’ve been studying sacred geometry and the cave paintings. I have a fairly good idea of their plans.”</p>
<p>“I thought you already knew what they were doing.” John’s eyes followed Sherlock, who was typing something on his phone. The circumstances weren’t the best, but he loved watching Sherlock work, no matter what. He was incandescent.</p>
<p>“I was meant to be only one part of the portal opening. They wanted me there physically, but that doesn’t mean they gave me a full write-up of their plans.”</p>
<p>“What about what you did in the hospital?”</p>
<p>“Testing my … limits. The limits of sacred geometry. The seizure was an … unintended side affect.”</p>
<p>John crossed his arms. “Bloody hell, Simon. Spit it out.”</p>
<p>Simon huffed. “I believe I have found the correct combination to render their geometry useless. Nothing can be done until the moments before they attempt to open the portal. We’ll need someone to act as a distraction while someone else changes the symbols they plan to paint on the field in Bath.”</p>
<p>“And let me guess. Neither of those people will be you.”</p>
<p>“It’s best if I’m not physically there. In truth, Sherlock shouldn’t be either, but–”</p>
<p>“If I’m there, he’s there, yeah. And we can’t bring anyone else in. It’s too dangerous.”</p>
<p>“Needlessly dramatic is what it is.” Sherlock said. He came to stand close to John. Their jackets brushed.</p>
<p>Simon handed over a folder. “Don’t let this get in the wrong hands. That includes your brother.”</p>
<p>Sherlock scowled and took the folder. “As if I’d let him get his grubby hands on it. And I believe he’s dealing with his own problem—more thalassic than chthonic, though …”</p>
<p>“What?” John said.</p>
<p>Simon laughed, and both men ignored him. John rolled his eyes.</p>
<p>“A one-to-one substitution?” Sherlock asked, scanning the notes in the folder.</p>
<p>Simon nodded. “For the most part, yes, except this one here. It’s the trickiest. It’ll be the last to be changed, replacing it with these three here.”</p>
<p>While the geniuses conferred over John’s head, he went to peruse the cave paintings. They didn’t quite match the Bath paintings, but the idea seemed similar. The same black stick figures were present. But instead of them facing one taller figure, they faced a group of hills or large rocks or something, connected by lines—like a conspiracy theorist connected events with string. On the other side of these humps was a large dark circle—perhaps a hole in the ground? Or another cave? Coming out of the darkness were tall figures, all wearing the upside down face John was growing weary of seeing.</p>
<p>“It’s a portal, isn’t it?” John asked Sherlock, who’d come to stand next to him again, and John thought he could feel warmth even through their layers.</p>
<p>“Yes, the apocalyptic event, letting hell’s inhabitants in.” He didn’t sound as sardonic has he had when speaking of it in the past.</p>
<p>John glanced at him. “It might be real, that’s what you’re thinking.” Sherlock glanced sharply at him, but didn’t confirm or deny. “The dreams …”</p>
<p>“You’ve been having them too?” Simon asked, coming up behind them.</p>
<p>With a nod, John turned to face him. “They wake us up two to three times a night. For months now, and we’re both sleepwalking.”</p>
<p>“You’re <em>both</em> having the dreams?” Simon’s gaze sharpened. “You weren’t on their list.” He rubbed his temples. “No previous visions when you were a child?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“An empathic bond, perhaps?”</p>
<p>“John is rather sensitive to the emotions of those around him,” Sherlock added.</p>
<p>Simon raised an eyebrow, and only then did John notice the dark circles under the young man’s eyes. “Possible, then.”</p>
<p>“Nothing we can do to stop them, huh?”</p>
<p>“Unfortunately not,” said Simon. “Less than a month to go, though.”</p>
<p>“The first of November, then?” asked Sherlock.</p>
<p>“Weakening of the veil.”</p>
<p>“Stuff and nonsense.”</p>
<p>“Early myths and religions the world over celebrate that time of year.”</p>
<p>Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “A very early myth from when we were migrating out of Africa, when we still had common ancestors.”</p>
<p>Simon shrugged. “You must admit that stories have power.”</p>
<p>“Only the power we give them.”</p>
<p>“And the Order gives this date great power.”</p>
<p>“Is there anything else we need to know?” asked John, ready to be done with this meeting. “We have a four-hour drive back to London to make.”</p>
<p>Sherlock failed to hide a small smile. John winked at him.</p>
<p>“That’s it for now. I’ll send along more information soon.”</p>
<p>They went their separate ways, John and Sherlock to their car, Simon off to wherever he’d come from.</p>

<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>But this board isn’t any old Ouija board you’d find in the store or your nan’s attic. Not even something you’d see from the 1890s, held in a museum somewhere. This board doesn’t let you contact spirits. It contacts demons. We can’t see from the tape what it was that scared the professor so much. But I do know this. The woman I spoke to who was at the séance said that she glimpsed it for just a moment when she took off her blindfold. It was tall and it was dark. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it? Did they contact a spirit? Was she just seeing black spots because she’d taken off her blindfold and was upset by the professor’s exclamation? Who knows. But you gotta admit, it’s a bit strange how all of Sherlock’s Scarlet Files end up seemingly connected.</p>
  <p>That’s all for this week. I’ll be back soon with another tale. Until then, I remain your intrepid journalist—or blogger, or whatever I am now—John Watson.</p>
</blockquote>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ideomotor effect – voluntary muscles can move independent of thought and intention. So, if people are asked to focus on the Ouija board’s planchette, their fingers are going to move it, no matter how hard they try not to because they’re so focused on the task. </p>
<p>Thalassic – relating to the sea<br/>Chthonic – concerning, belonging to, or inhabiting the underworld (pronounced thohn-ick)</p>
<p>The cave they’re at is <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bontnewydd_Palaeolithic_site">Bontnewydd Paleolithic site</a>. There are no cave paintings there that I’m aware of, but when I did a search for significant caves in the UK, this is what came out, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ why not.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. The Final Countdown</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which John and Sherlock huddle for warmth, Eurus comes back, John leave the flat a lot to avoid sibling fighting, and Eurus talks her way into helping at the final showdown.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>12 Days</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>They were both restless. They couldn’t focus on cases, they were barely getting a couple of hours of sleep a night. They clung to each other, hiding away from everyone else. They might have stayed that way, but for the knock on their door toward the end of October.</p>
<p>The flat was chilly—John had found Sherlock standing in front of an open window, staring blankly out, no memory of getting out of bed nor how long he’d been there—and so they were on the sofa huddled under a blanket for warmth. Before John could extricate himself from both Sherlock’s limbs and the quilt, the sitting room door opened, revealing Eurus, holding two bags.</p>
<p>“No,” Sherlock said flatly.</p>
<p>“Funny, I didn’t ask,” Eurus quipped. She entered the room and dropped her bags. “Less than two weeks to the main event, I thought you could use some extra support.”</p>
<p>“John!” Sherlock looked betrayed.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t me!” Despite the accusation, John squirmed back into position under the blanket next to Sherlock, who put an arm around him (to maximize sharing of body warmth, of course).</p>
<p>“It was Mycroft,” Eurus said. “He’s got his own eldritch things to worry about, so he asked me to come.” She sat on the coffee table.</p>
<p>“We’re not children, we can handle this ourselves.” Sherlock pouted. It was kinda cute when aimed at someone else.</p>
<p>For once, John agreed. They shouldn’t bring in any innocent people. It was dangerous enough as it was.</p>
<p>“We’ve got it covered, Eurus. It’s fine,” he said.</p>
<p>She ignored them, except to eye their intertwined position. “The room upstairs is free now, right? I’ll go unpack. Some tea would be lovely.” She stood and headed for the stairs, grabbing her bags along the way. “Some sort of black tea with milk and sugar, if you please.”</p>
<p>“I hate my family,” Sherlock muttered, dropping his head back onto the sofa behind him.</p>
<p>“What <em>is</em> Mycroft doing these days?” John asked.</p>
<p>Sherlock shrugged. “Putting his big nose where it doesn’t belong. Hopefully he’ll get eaten.”</p>
<p>“<em>Eaten</em>? By <em>what</em>?”</p>
<p>“I’m not picky. What are you doing?” Sherlock asked as John began re-extracting himself.</p>
<p>“Going to make tea.” He stood and stretched.</p>
<p>“You’re going to make tea just because my sister asked for it?”</p>
<p>“No, that’s what I do for <em>you</em>. But she mentioned tea, it’s cold, and I want some. If she gets a cup out of it, well, that’s not the end of the world, I reckon.” He paused. “Literally, in this case.”</p>
<p>Sherlock scoffed, then looked serious. “I don’t want her a part of this.”</p>
<p>John headed for the kitchen with a shrug. “I don’t know that we have much of a choice. Eurus is an adult. We can’t really stop her.”</p>
<p>“We could lock her in her room.”</p>
<p>“As if I didn’t learn to pick locks, same as you, darling.”</p>
<p>John moved to stand between the two rooms while he waited for the kettle to boil. Eurus sprawled in Sherlock’s chair. She’d traded her coat for a thick, long jumper and her boots for matching wool socks. “Why’s it so cold in here?”</p>
<p>“Uh, left a window open. The heater should warm it up soon,” John half admitted. The kettle clicked off, and he went to finish the tea tray.</p>
<p>“Not that I’m not a fan of falling leaves and fireplaces, but why did you have the window open to begin with? It’s October.”</p>
<p>John was glad he was positioning things on the tray, or he would’ve given himself away by glancing at Sherlock. “Experiment.” He picked up the tray and headed for the sitting room.</p>
<p>Eurus hummed. “I would say, better you than me, but I apparently will reap the ‘benefits’ of living with Sherlock now too.”</p>
<p>“You really didn’t need to come,” John tried to convince her as she doctored her tea. He put the tray on the coffee table and sat next to Sherlock. When he looked up from his own cup, her face had lost the usual “I’m quirky and mischievous!” expression. She looked serious.</p>
<p>“I care about my brother. And anyone he loves. If I can help keep you two safe, I will.”</p>
<p>The two men avoided looking at each other. The L word hadn’t been uttered yet, though they both knew that’s what it was. It felt safer, though, not saying it quite yet.</p>
<p>“What do you plan on doing?” John asked.</p>
<p>Eurus shrugged and sipped her tea. “Mmm, masala. How very seasonal of you, John. I can do research. I’m shite at cooking, but I make killer scones.” She waved a hand in that Sherlockian (Holmesian?) way. “Whatever you need.”</p>
<p>“We need you to go home,” said Sherlock.</p>
<p>“I think you need a fire. It’s still cold in here.” She moved to the fireplace and began laying it. “It’s not really autumn without a fire, is it? You’re not as cold this far south, but it’s still chilly.”</p>
<p>John realized then, why she’d come. She wanted to distract them. Not in an evil way, but in an <em>I’m trying to relieve your stress in the only manner I can</em> way, and he appreciated it, thought he still thought she’d be safer back in Scotland.</p>
<p>Sherlock rose and went to his violin, rosining the bow and laying out his sheet music. He began with the new section he was working on, one that was particularly unpleasant to hear.</p>
<p>“Ugh. As terrible as that is, you won’t scare me away, Sher,” Eurus said, though she retreated from the chair to the kitchen. John joined her.</p>
<p>“He’s not scaring you,” John explained. “At least, he’s not only doing that. He’s composing.”</p>
<p>Eurus looked thoughtful. “Not he usual.”</p>
<p>John shrugged. “We’re up against possible child killers trying to end the world, and he hasn’t slept soundly in five months because of nightmares and sleepwalking. Would your music be cheerful if you were going through that?”</p>
<p>“True,” she conceded, but her brow furrowed. “That tempo, though. And the key. It’s not … there’s something about it.” She rubbed a hand on her chin in thought.</p>
<p>“You know music?”</p>
<p>“Not just music, “Eurus said with a smile. “Violin music. When Sherlock asked for lessons, I did too. I wanted to be like my big brother. We used to compose together. Nothing fancy. Just little ditties like children tend to sing. Then I found writing, and I realized it was more of a comfort to me, so I put down my bow and picked up a pen instead. It’s been ages, but I remember a thing or two. There’s something about this song …”</p>
<p>“Makes you think of horror films?”</p>
<p>Eurus chuckled. “Maybe.” She stared at her brother a moment longer, then turned to John. “How <em>are </em>you two doing? Really.”</p>
<p>John glanced at Sherlock, furiously laying into his violin with his bow, then he nodded to the kitchen table. He pulled the doors shut behind them to dampen the sound a bit.</p>
<p>“Let me catch you up,” he said.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>Eurus didn’t start having the nightmares, but she picked up their mood the longer she stayed. They were all irritable and short with each other. The sibling bickering turned into yelling fights, with one or both of them storming out of the room. John learned to leave the flat at such times. He’d visit Mrs. Hudson or go for a walk in the park. The autumn air was crisp and bracing after the stifled atmosphere of the flat, and the slowly turning leaves were a welcome sight. And, of course, there were the days when he and Sherlock fought, which also pushed him out of their home, usually with a stomachache or a headache. He’d spend hours walking the park, wearing thin the same paths.</p>
<p>In the past, he’d eventually be picked up by one of Mycroft’s minions who hoped he’d give up some dirt on Sherlock. John actually wished for those days now. Not only had they been simpler, but he thought he could use Mycroft’s advice right then, loath as he was to admit that. Both on how to deal with his younger siblings, but also on what to do with this whole apocalypse thing. Sherlock was keeping schtum on whether the event would actually open gates to hell, and Eurus vacillated on her opinion. John didn’t know what to think. There were so many connections, so much weirdness, that it had to be real, right? But on the other hand, an honest-to-God apocalyptic event? This wasn’t <em>Buffy the Vampire Slayer</em>. But there was neither word from nor sight of the eldest Holmes sibling. So, they were on their own. Even Simon had gone radio silent; who knew of they’d ever see or hear from him again, now that they doing his work for him.</p>
<p>John returned home one afternoon from one of his excursions to find Sherlock alone in the sitting room, composing again. Without much else to keep him busy, music occupied much of his time those days. John settled into his chair with his computer in hopes of churning out one last post. Halloween was two days away, making Bath three days out. They were all antsy. He procrastinated by checking Facebook and both Sherlock’s and his email accounts. These days he mostly used his work account, he but kept the personal one for family and former colleagues to keep in touch. Not that anyone ever did, because John was shit about replying, so the concerned emails from work mates had slowly tapered off. Other than junk mail, there was a single new message from an unknown address. He clicked it open.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“John?”</p>
<p>John shook himself free of his thoughts. “Hmm?”</p>
<p>“Thought we’d order in. What would you like?” Sherlock peered at him doggedly, as if trying to understand where John had been.</p>
<p>“Where from?”</p>
<p>“The Chinese down the street.”</p>
<p>“Hmm. My usual?”</p>
<p>Sherlock nodded and typed out their order on his phone. He really did prefer to text. Then he sat across from John in his own chair. “What is it?”</p>
<p>“What’s what?” John doubted his expression was sufficiently innocent for Sherlock, but there was no way he’d tell him what he’d just learned from Simon. Sherlock could never know.</p>
<p>“You’ve been staring at my chair for the past hour. What happened?”</p>
<p>John shook his head, his mind scrambling to come up with an alternative answer to his actual thoughts. “Do you think we can do it?”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s expression cleared, then morphed into exhaustion.</p>
<p>“I don’t even know if there’s anything to do. For all I know, this is an elaborate hoax to get back at <em>that arsehole Sherlock Holmes</em> who refuses to pay out his reward, despite having a number of cases unsolved.” He rubbed his temple.</p>
<p>“But the dreams,” John argued.</p>
<p>“Stress.”</p>
<p>“The cave paintings.”</p>
<p>“Shared myths in different societies is not uncommon.”</p>
<p>“The children.”</p>
<p>Sherlock opened his mouth but closed it again before saying anything.</p>
<p>Before the conversation could progress further, Eurus entered the sitting room carrying a sheaf of papers. “In what order do these need to be substituted, Sher?”</p>
<p>“<em>Eurus</em> …” Sherlock’s tone was defeated.</p>
<p>“It’s the only way,” she argued. “John will be busy distracting, and you’ll be occupied with your violin. That leaves me for the symbol substitutions.”</p>
<p>John’s gaze swung to Sherlock. “Violin? What?”</p>
<p>“Oh, Sherlock didn’t tell you?” She dropped in the nearest seat. “He’s written a contrasting piece to the music being used to open the gates.”</p>
<p>“Black’s compositions?” John thought back to what Simon had told them months before. About people listening to the songs John had posted on his blog, and that Dabic and Wendt had put out for downloading. That the songs wouldn’t need to be played specifically at the ceremony, because they were being played around the world by unsuspecting listeners. “Why am I only hearing about this now?”</p>
<p>“Because you run away every time Sherlock and I even look at each other these days,” Eurus said dryly.</p>
<p>“Sherlock could have–”</p>
<p>“I didn’t want give you another thing to worry about. I wasn’t sure it would work. I’m still not quite done with it. It might not work.” Sherlock bit his lip and fidgeted with the sleeves of his dressing gown. John hadn’t seen him so insecure since … well, since they’d become a couple, or whatever it was they were.</p>
<p>“If you think it’s possible, Sherlock, you’ll do it,” he reassured him.</p>
<p>Sherlock gave him a ghost of a smile, then glanced to his sister. “Whether I do it or not, you won’t be coming with us, Eurus.”</p>
<p>She scowled. “I’m the only one left. You know you’ll have to physically play live if you’re to combat everyone playing it on their music players at home.”</p>
<p>“We don’t know that for sure.”</p>
<p>“Yes, we do, Sherlock. I’ve been reading Scriabin’s notes from Simon. It’s the only way.”</p>
<p>Bu–”</p>
<p>“Sherlock,” John cut in. “We can’t stop her. And she’s right, she could be helpful to have with us.”</p>
<p>“It’s too dangerous!”</p>
<p>“And she’s an adult, capable of choosing what situations to place herself in. If she wants to come and help, that’s her decision.” John tried to give his sternest frown.</p>
<p>Sherlock grumbled, then voluntarily went to answer the street door when the bell rang, signaling the arrival of their food.</p>
<p>“Thanks for backing me up.” Eurus smile at him.</p>
<p>“I’m not,” John said. “But I also know you can’t out-stubborn a Holmes, and I’ve got too many other things to worry about.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Once More Unto the Breach</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Halloween is avoided, they go to Bath for the final showdown, Eurus makes ick faces when the boys get mushy, and they somehow avert the apocalypse.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock put their doorbell in the freezer on Halloween. The rising popularity of the holiday in the UK meant they actually got a few trick-or-treaters, and none of the inhabitants of flat 221B wanted to hear that racket the day before reckoning.</p>
<p>That night, they all went to bed early, though they knew none of them would sleep much. Still, there was something comforting about lying in bed, next to the one you loved most in the case of John and Sherlock, cocooned by their physical and emotional warmth. Most nights, they kept to their own sides of the bed when sleeping, both of them being so restless that there was a fear of being punched if they were too close, but by mutual, tacit agreement, they gravitated to each other as soon as they slid between the bedclothes that night.</p>
<p>Sherlock scooted close, facing John, so John mirrored him and put his top arm around Sherlock, his hand landing comfortingly on his lower back. They shared a pillow, their breath mingling. They said nothing for a time, just stared at each other in the dark, moonlight highlighting parts of their faces. Sherlock put a hand to the side of John’s neck, stroking his pulse point with his thumb. Perhaps it calmed him, feeling something so physically present, something so alive.</p>
<p>“If we don’t make it tomorrow …” John began. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, but he wanted to start the conversation they needed to have.</p>
<p>“We <em>will</em>,” Sherlock insisted. “Just some madmen being idiots. Not so hard to defeat.” There was a tiny quirk of a smile at the end of the pronouncement.</p>
<p>“But if we don’t,” John continued, shooting Sherlock a stern look when he opened his mouth. “If something happens during the ceremony or, I dunno, the train malfunctions and we all die a fiery death before we even get to Bath, I just need you to know something.”</p>
<p>“John.” Sherlock’s face was pleading, wide eyes glistening in the half dark.</p>
<p>John slide his hands up to cup Sherlock’s face. “You are the best and wisest man I’ve ever known, and it’s been an honor being your friend and your …” He floundered. “In being with you. I’m glad we found each other.”</p>
<p>Sherlock’s smile was tremulous. “Perhaps our goal should be to get through tomorrow so we can figure out what this is,” he said, twiddling a finger between them.</p>
<p>John gave a low chuckle. “Works for me. But for now … I love you, and I’ll be with you until the end, alright? I’ll have your back, tomorrow and always.”</p>
<p>Sherlock let out a long breath and tightened his hand on John’s neck briefly. “I … me, the same.”</p>
<p>“I know,” John said with a fond chuckle. Then he leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s lips briefly. “Now, let’s get some sleep. Big day ahead.”</p>
<p>Sherlock hummed but otherwise stayed quiet.</p>
<p>Just as John was falling asleep, he heard Sherlock whisper, “I love you more than life itself, John Watson.” Then he felt a soft pressure on his lips before Sherlock cuddled him closer.</p>
<p>All John could do in return was hum contentedly as he let sleep take him.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>The morning of the first of November, they stood on the edge of Boulder Field in a copse of trees that shielded them from sight. A cold, lonely wind whipped through the trees, rustling fallen leaves and biting at edges of coat sleeves and the tops of collars. Eurus carried a bag filled with ground-up chalk and powdered blood (blood meal from a gardening shop, to be more precise) and the cheat sheet she’d made for symbol substitutions. Sherlock was armed with his violin and composition sheets, though he had the whole thing memorized. John had a pistol (issued by some mysterious lackey of Mycroft’s), a bullhorn, and a brain scrambling to come up with distraction techniques. They’d had a vague idea of what would a occur during the ceremony, but having never faced the Order before, they didn’t know what opposition they’d meet.</p>
<p>There was movement across the field. People were bent over the ground, carefully sifting their own chalk/blood combo to create the necessary symbols. A group of children were huddled to one side, watched over by a man. John thought he recognized Sammy in the group, but it was hard to tell from the distance. Joining the four mini Stonehenge-like boulders, which John recognized from pictures, was a fifth boulder centered inside the others. The focal point. The linchpin. If it had been smaller, they might have been able to destroy it, but for a rock that size, they’d need explosives, which would put the children at risk.</p>
<p>They watched the activity for a time. They couldn’t go in until the ceremony had begun, or the Order would find a way to stop them. Their approach must be precisely timed to even have a chance at succeeding.</p>
<p>John took a moment to look at Sherlock—the reason he was there that day, the man he didn’t want to live without. Feeling John’s gaze, Sherlock turned his head, his expression of concentration softening for just a moment into a small smile. John turned and took his hand with one of his own, the other going up to the back of Sherlock’s neck. He pulled their heads together. “Stay safe out there. We have things to do after.”</p>
<p>“Ew,” muttered Eurus.</p>
<p>Sherlock didn’t even twitch at his sister, his focus fully on John. “We’ll make it. I won’t let you die.”</p>
<p>“And will you be able to not let <em>you</em> die, too? I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to do <em>life</em> without you.”</p>
<p>Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed. “You and me against the rest of the world.”</p>
<p>Eurus muttered something that might have included the words “flesh” and “end,” but John didn’t let it distract him. Only one Holmes could hold his attention.</p>
<p>“Be safe.” He lifted up on his toes to place a kiss over each eye, then pressed another to Sherlock’s lips.</p>
<p>“You too,” Sherlock said lowly before returning the kiss.</p>
<p>John turned to Eurus, who backed up a step. “No kisses for me, please.”</p>
<p>John huffed a laugh and opened his arms. “How about a hug?”</p>
<p>She pretended to consider a moment before walking into his arms. “Good luck,” she whispered in his ear. “And you better fucking live. I was looking forward to having someone my height in the family.”</p>
<p>John pinched her arm and backed away. “Arse.”</p>
<p>She winked at him. “You love me.” Then she turned to Sherlock, who froze, affrighted. She softened her gaze. “Please, Sher. Just once. Just in case.” Her voice broke on the final word.</p>
<p>Sherlock’s face fell, and his lower lip trembled as he pulled his sister close, hiding her face in his neck.</p>
<p>“If you die, I <em>will</em> haunt your arse,” she threatened, and he laughed.</p>
<p>“Isn’t it the dead person who does the haunting?”</p>
<p>“I’ll find a way.” They hugged a while longer before pulling a part.</p>
<p>As one, the three of them turned to the field. The children were being led to form a large circle around the stand of boulders. <em>A circle within circle, concentric rings</em>, John thought, remembering one of the symbols he’d seen repeated at different locations over the past year. They looked dazed, like they were sleepwalking. John glanced at Sherlock’s face, worried he’d be pulled in too, but it was clear and determined. He went back to watching the scene unfold in front of him as Sherlock bent to pull out his instrument from the case.</p>
<p>The children stood silent and calm where they were placed. One woman made a final symbol on the ground, then moved outside the circle. A single man remained inside the circle, and he began speaking in a booming voice.</p>
<p>Sherlock cleared his throat. “John goes first. Eurus, wait until the leader is distracted, but start circling to the southern end of the stand of trees now. I’ll begin playing here and remain as long as I am able. Don’t pay attention to me. Concentrate on your j–”</p>
<p>John grabbed Sherlock’s cold hand. “It’s okay. We know.”</p>
<p>“Bonne chance, boys,” Eurus said, then started walking to their right.</p>
<p>Sherlock’s nervous huff puffed the air in front of him with white. “Ready?”</p>
<p>John laughed. “Not remotely.” He flexed his hand and rolled his neck. “Okay.”</p>
<p>“Now.” Sherlock let go of his hand, and John dashed out from their cover.</p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>
  <strong>
    <em>Interlude</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>There’s a thing that happens when you’re in the middle of terrifying or fast-paced events. You forget most of what happens even as it’s happening, and you hyperfocus on one little thing. For John, it’s the feel of the gun in his hand, cold and unforgiving and just as familiar as if he’d held it last week, rather than a year ago. He knows some part of his brain is chanting fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck the whole time, but he doesn’t remember if he’s said anything out loud. Has he even used the bullhorn? Why did he bring it? He knows there is chaos around him, men and women yelling, one or two children crying. Has he shot his gun? He doesn’t know. He’s just focused on holding it, feeling it, being comforted by it. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>***</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Eurus also has some choice words banging around her skull as she steps out of safety and into chaos. She doesn’t know what John has done, but it works. Somehow no one is paying attention to her as she darts onto the field and begins smudging the first symbol with her foot. She focuses on the feel of the chalk and blood mixture, how it coats her hand and sticks to the cold sweat, how it makes her skin feel soft but also grimy. She finds a moment to worry for her little big brother, but only a moment. The symbols require her full attention. She runs to the next part of the circle and does the same process—smudge, dip, draw, smudge, dip, draw—three times more. She thinks she’ll be doing this in her sleep for years to come. If she lives.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>***</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sherlock shuts the world out. His mind palace is his only safety right now, with John so far away. Oh, John. They’ve only just found each other. They deserve more time. His fingers tighten on his bow, and the first harsh note screams from his violin. He focuses on the vibrations, the fingering, making each note perfect in length and pitch. His fingers are sore from composing almost non-stop for three weeks, but he doesn’t let it distract him. He hones in on the pain, knowing that it’s nothing compared to what will come if they don’t succeed. He thinks he believes it now. Believes that a hell gate (hellmouth, John corrects in his head, and he doesn’t know what that means, but it makes John laugh) will open and let the chthonic forces through</em>
  <em>—"the end of the world as we know it,” sings John in his head. Sherlock shakes his head. No distractions. </em>
</p>
<p><em>He looks up. Without realizing it, he’s crept out from the trees, and he stands on the edge of the circle. Even with the chaos (what </em>had<em> John done?), there are strands of bright line connecting the children, Sammy at the top of the circle, and a strand beams from him to the circle of rocks inside. The boulders form their own circle of light, which is then beamed to the central stone. He looks around for John but cannot find him. </em>Concentrate, Holmes. Play the song.<em> His fingers ache and sting. His eyes scan for John’s bright head, his strong body. </em>Where is he?</p>
<p><em>He almost stops playing then. There, on the ground. </em>No. John. <em>His fingers almost falter yet again, but then he hears Eurus’s voice to his left. “That’s it, Sher. It’s working. Keep playing.” But how can he? If he loses John, saving the world won’t mean a damned thing. Then he hears a child’s cry, and it strengthens his resolve. They deserve a chance to live, and not just live, but live in a world peopled only by humans, no demon overlords. He hits the fifth movement of his song, and the beams of light waver. </em>Yes<em>. Almost there. </em>John<em> … </em></p>
<p>~*~</p>
<p>John saw the lights waver. Sherlock’s song was working! He tried to roll over, but a sharp pain in his wrist stopped him. Fuck, definitely broken. How had that happened? He didn’t remember much of the last five minutes (hours?), but whatever he’d done had worked. Eurus was working on the final symbol, Sherlock was most of the way through his song. He could relax and let them do the work now.</p>
<p>Moments after he finished the thought, Eurus was bowled over by a woman with a good stone more muscle than petite Eurus. “Shit,” he muttered. He resolved to sit up, cradling his broken wrist against his stomach. The pain grayed his vision slightly, but he breathed deep and sat up. He shook his head. After another breath, he pushed himself to standing, and just at that moment, a man hurtled toward Sherlock.</p>
<p>“SHERLOCK!” John yelled. It gave Sherlock just enough time to tuck in to keep his violin from being broken or his breath knocked out of him, but he went down with his attacker.</p>
<p>John stepped toward his partner, then realize he couldn’t. The last symbol needed to be finished—that was more important to their plan (thought not to John himself). He stumbled toward where Eurus had left the last symbol unfinished. Dare he even try? He’d only looked over the sheet vaguely, and if he got it wrong, it could make things worse. Something flashed, he looked up to see the center stone glowing.</p>
<p>“Shit, no.” If they’d made it that far into the ritual, according to Simon’s final, secret email to him, then fixing the symbol was useless. There was only one thing left to do. He swept his gaze to Sherlock, still fighting against his attacker (and winning?).</p>
<p>He ran to the center stone. He had mere seconds to remember what Simon’s email had said. <em>Get to the center stone. If it starts glowing, the only thing that can stop it is a non-psychic physically disrupting the beam at the gates. Last ditch effort only. I don’t know what that kind of magical charge will do to a human body, even a psychic one. DON’T LET SHERLOCK OR THE CHILDREN NEAR THAT SPOT.</em></p>
<p>John skidded to a halt between the single central boulder and the two in front of it that formed the hell gate (hellmouth, his giddy brain told him).</p>
<p>He had enough time to shoot a final <em>sorry, I love you</em> thought at Sherlock before the world went bright white, then black.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yes, I pulled a Tolkien (or was it GRRM??? Someone wrote a battle scene where the POV character is knocked out so the author could avoid writing the battle itself) and kept John both distracted and knocked out for part of the action. I really don’t even know how I got this far in writing this story. I’m definitely not one who usually writes action or plotty stories. And I’ve definitely never written anything this long. O_O Sorry if this chapter is a let-down …</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Epiparodos</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which things are wrapped up neatly and we (sort of) learn what Mycroft has been up to.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Holy crap, it's an ending! I've never written anything this long before. O_O</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <strong>The Scarlet Files: Redux</strong>
  </p>
  <p>by John Watson for UK Life</p>
  <p>Today is the last day of Sherlock’s life, if the rumours of the Unsound are to be believed. For my own happiness, I sure hope he lives. I know a part of me will be watching him like a hawk until midnight. It’s funny that a year ago, I would never have believed if someone told me the supernatural existed, and that I would be a part of this world.</p>
  <p>Even now, part of me hopes it’s all a grand hoax perpetrated to get back at the berk who goes around ruining everyone’s fun by disproving paranormal events. Because if it is a hoax, then I can be sure that not only will Sherlock live to see 8<sup>th</sup> November, but that he and I and a friend will live to see 2<sup>nd</sup> November. I’m writing this on Halloween night. Tomorrow we go into battle.</p>
  <p>If I die, I’ve asked Mike to post this on 7<sup>th</sup> November. Of course, if we die tomorrow, the world may not exist on 7<sup>th</sup> November, but I’m trying to be optimistic here. I sure as hell hope it exists—for you all, my readers, who have stuck with us through a <strong>wild</strong> ride. You deserve for the world to continue as it has been, people being born, and people dying, laughter and love and sex and parties and books and art and everything that’s come to signify humanity.</p>
  <p>Sorry, I’m a little scattered. Hard to know what to write on the possible last night of your life. I guess I just want to say, thank you for following along with me. It’s been fun. I’ve learned so much, from you and from Sherlock. I’m glad I got to share a little of him with the world and even gladder he’s in my life at all.</p>
  <p>Sadly, if you’re reading this, I won’t be back next week with a new file. But even in death, I remain your intrepid journalist—or blogger, or whatever I am now—John Watson.</p>
</blockquote><p>***</p><p>“Maudlin and overly romantic,” came Sherlock’s voice over John’s shoulder, his breath tickling his ear.</p><p>John swiped behind him, but kept his eyes on the old, unpublished post. “I thought I was going to die, you prat.”</p><p>“If you had died, we probably would’ve failed, and there’d be no one left to post or read your sugary nonsense.”</p><p>“Oi!”</p><p>“Also, why’d you start off mentioning yesterday, and talking about watching me like a hawk for my Unsound death—which didn’t happen, you’ll note. You said the post was only going to be published if you died. You couldn’t watch me like a hawk if you were already dead.”</p><p>“I thought I’d come back and haunt you.” John swiveled in his chair to face his partner, careful not to jar his injured wrist.</p><p>“What makes you think I’d live?”</p><p>“You, Sherlock Holmes, are too stubborn to die,” John said, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips. “Or maybe I never got around to finishing writing it, and it’s a mashup of two different posts …”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes, and stood up, pulling John with him. “You’ll have to use voice-to-text for your next few posts.” He stroked John’s splinted wrist.</p><p>“Or I could dictate to you …”</p><p>“Only if you want your usual drivel replaced by hard scientific fact.” Sherlock hummed, looking thoughtful. “Actually …”</p><p>“No,” John said sternly. He pulled away and turned to the kitchen. “Tea?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Sherlock had tried making tea the first few days after they’d returned from Bath, and John, bruised and battered, had let him. They’d both decided that as soon as John could stand, he’d return to manning the teapot. And some things were best forgotten.</p><p>“Eurus is back in Glasgow,” Sherlock called, rosining up his bow.</p><p>“Oh, yeah? I thought Mycroft would keep her locked away for a month trying to get the full story out of her.”</p><p>“He knows that would be an inefficient use of resources, the same reason he didn’t lock us away for a month.”</p><p>John dropped tea leaves in the pot while the kettle heated and chuckled. The man himself had looked drained and not up to any deep interrogation. He’d let them go an hour after picking them up from the train station, but had bundled Eurus up after hasty goodbyes at Whitehall.</p><p>“I think she made Mycroft take her home to use his spa bathroom,” Sherlock said before playing the first few bars of a new song he said he was calling either “The Scarlet Files” or “John.”</p><p>John smiled, both at the music and the memory of Eurus covered in mud the whole train ride home. She’d landed in a puddle when she’d been tackled. All three of them had looked roughed up, and he still wasn’t sure how they were allowed to get on the train, but Eurus had definitely been the dirtiest. They’d stopped at A&amp;E in Bath to get John’s wrist splinted and his head looked at for a concussion, and she’d cleaned up a little there, but she hadn’t been able to do much about her dirty clothes. She’d bought a plastic poncho so she could at least avoid getting the train seat dirty.</p><p>And now they were home again. Eurus hopefully bundled up in chilly Glasgow, and he and Sherlock at 221B, where they belonged. The fire crackled merrily, as if to remind him how good they had it. Not that he needed reminding.</p><p>“I hope she milked him for a few good meals, too, for leaving us high and dry.”</p><p>“We didn’t need his help, John. We won. We beat the bad guy.”</p><p>“It would’ve been nice if we could’ve gone in, guns blazing with a whole army of secret service agents, though. Faster, at least. And I wouldn’t have broken my wrist.”</p><p>John set a cup of tea next to Sherlock’s hip on the desk, then settled into his chair while he watched his partner play. He breathed in the earthy scent of his tea and sighed. Yes, they’d beat the bad guy, and they had all lived to tell the tale. Which they couldn’t actually <em>tell</em> to anyone, because Mycroft made them sign nondisclosure agreements. He felt bad leaving his readership high and dry after they’d followed him for months on the journey. He’d have to find a way to sneak it in at some point …</p><p>For now, though, he was content to have some peace and quiet, as much as one could get of either around Sherlock Holmes. He knew that soon enough, he’d be woken up at 3am to go search a tip or he’d be banging around some back alley, chasing after Sherlock. He—they—deserved a rest for a while. And he’d make sure they got it. For a few days at least.</p><p>“Well,” Sherlock said, stopping his playing long enough to sip his tea and continue their conversation. “He was a little busy focusing on his own world-ending event.”</p><p>“Okay, seriously. What the <em>hell</em> was your brother doing this whole time?” John tried to pin Sherlock with a frown, but it slid off him.</p><p>He waved his bow about, then positioned it to return to playing. “God knows. The usual things he does. Rule the world, stop and start small wars, keep eldritch horrors from rising from the deep. You know, government stuff.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay, so I thought it’d be hilarious to drop hints of Mycroft being too busy fighting Cthulhuian horrors to help them out with their own apocalypse. Funny? Yes? No? Okay, just me. But hey, if someone else did find it funny or at least intriguing, please write the companion piece that details his adventures. I want to read it. </p><p>Well that was a bit of a lackluster ending ... Purposefully so (I'm a fan of Buffy, and that show had a few of "the battle's done and we kinda won?" endings). ;) I hope my foray into writing creepy action was not a complete disappointment. Props to the writers of TBT, who told their story far better than I ever could (I haven't listened to S3 yet, don't spoil it for me!). </p><p>If you made it to the end, congrats! I hope you enjoyed yourself. Thanks for reading, and happy Halloween month. 🎃👻🦇</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>You can come babble excitedly at me on Tumblr <a href="http://vateacancameos.tumblr.com/">@vateacancameos</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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